Solitude is the true destiny

'If you have the patience to go on counting, you discover that these pairs gradually become rarer. You encounter increasingly isolated primes, lost in that silent, measured space made only of ciphers, and you develop distressing presentiment that the pairs encountered up until that point were accidental, that solitude is true destiny [...] Mattia thought that he and Alice were like that, twin primes, alone and lost, close but not close enough to really touch each other'

Solitude of Prime Numbers by Paolo Giordano.

I'm glad I read this immediately after Stephanie Myer's leaked 'Midnight Sun: draft' as it restored my faith in both good literature and teenagers. Paolo Giordano, author of the Italian novel The Solitude of Prime Numbers, welcomes you back to the awkward and somewhat painful years of your teenage years but before you panic, please note, there are no vampires - even of the vegetarian kind.

Winner of the Italian Man Booker, this bildungsroman captures the angst and trauma of two teenagers, Mattia and Alice, and follows their development (if you can call it that) into adults. Both Mattia and Alice suffer a traumatic event in their childhood, of which the reverberations are felt even in adulthood. It serves as a small reminder in our much troubled climate that what we do today will inevitably affect what happens tomorrow.

Alice, under the pressure of her pushy father, nearly loses a leg in a ski accident; she is left crippled. Her subsequent obsession - or rather insecurity with her body - develops into an illness that is kept a secret even from the reader: anorexia. In her married life and contrary to the desires of her husband, she is unable to conceive children because of the way she'd damaged her body for years; thus the foundations of an unhappy marriage is set.

I found Mattia’s story of more interest: he is a genius but with a mentally ill twin sister. Under the cruelty of high school and out of embarrassment on his way to a birthday party, he ditches his twin sister in the park – with full intention of going back later to get her. As fate would have it, when he returns hours at night, she is not there. The family never really find out what happened to Michela, his twin. They all assume she drowned, although her body was never found. There is a glimmer of hope towards the end of the novel but like everything else that is left unsaid, so is this. Mattia, like Alice, copes through self-harm.

The idea behind the melancholy title becomes clear approximately half way into the novel : Mattia, who finds it easier to relate to numbers than others, believes that he and Alice are twin prime numbers: 11 and 13; 17 and 19 and so on; they are outcasts from society; they are forever close and connected but never quite able to touch. Beautiful notion right? If you put the book down, detesting the eternal melancholy manifested in the characters, you can at least go away with this poignant concept. As you’re reading the novel you expect them ‘to get it on’, waiting for one of them to declare their feelings explicitly, knowing all the while that they are made for each other. Pause. It dawns on you the full meaning of Mattia’s notion: they are twin prime numbers. It will never be. Solitude is their true destiny.Nevertheless, you deny this, especially when their paths cross again many years later. Surely, surely this time they can share their solitude together, that perhaps they can come together through the acknowledgement of their shared solitude within each other...

A tragic climax: the horrifc murder of the popular fiction writer Arnold Baffin

The murder of the prolific popular writer, Arnold Baffin, has shocked the nation. ‘Who?’ you may ask but those who knew him and liked his work are intense in their devotion. Among his titles are: The precious Labyrint, Tobias and the Fallen Angel, A Skull on Fire and my personal favourite – Mysticism and Literature.

What made this murder of the ‘wonderful’ writer all the more chilling was that it was committed by an intimate friend. Bradley Pearson, a 58 year old retired tax inspector and a failed writer with a fixation with Hamlet, has been arrested for the murder of his friend, his literary rival and protégé. The police found Arnold Baffin dead in his home, his skull slightly indented by a large fire poker. They found Arnold’s blood and hair on the poker, and Mr Baffin’s blood on Bradley Pearson’s shoes which places him at the scene of the crime.

Rachel Baffin, the unhappy and unfulfilled wife of Arnold, in an interview revealed how Bradley Pearson was a rather dull and rude person, envious of Arnold’s success as writer and constantly critiqued Arnold’s work. This short paragraph from a recent review of Mr Baffin’s work, by his friend and murderer (what an oxymoron!) reveals their different attitude to art:

"Arnold Baffin is a fluent writer. He is a prolific writer. It may well be this facility which is his own worst enemy. It is a quality which can be mistaken for imagination. And if the artist himself so mistakes it he is doomed. The writer who is facile needs, to become a writer of any merit, quality about all; and that is courage: the courage to destroy, the courage to wait."

From the outset the police could not understand why anyone would want to hurt Arnold Baffin, a man who was as ‘harmless as a fly’. Mr Baffin’s wife, Rachel Baffin, provided the police with two motives. She claims that though Mr Pearson was a cold and distant man, he was never violent and that he must have been driven to this horrendous act out of not only envy, but vengeance.

Vengeance for what you may ask.

Bradley Pearson, 58, had a love-affair with Julian Baffin, 20, daughter of the victim. It was Mr Baffin who tore the lovers apart, revealing Mr Pearson’s true age; Mr Pearson had told Julian he was ten years younger.

However, it was not the revelation of his true age which killed their relationship but rather the revelation that Mr Pearson had sex with Julian Baffin – who at the time was dressed as Hamlet, for the first time immediately after he heard about the suicide of his mentally distressed sister, Priscilla Saxe; a death for which Mr Pearson is partly responsible because of neglect. What a piece of work is a man! Naturally the naïve and foolish Julian Baffin fled the very next morning after having refused to leave Bradley Pearson the night before when her father had revealed some home truths. To flaming youth let virtue be a wax.

Did Bradley Pearson truly love Julian? His diaries and his letters – which we were granted an exclusive look at, revealed an intense love for Julian, but how much of this was just simply lust misunderstood? After all, his diary revealed that on their first ‘proper’ date at the restaurant in the Post Office Tower that a sort of giddiness filled him, locating itself primarily in the genitals.

Far more important is the question did Bradley Pearson really the commit murder? A deep throat source has suggested that actually Bradley Pearson had undergone a transformation because of his love for Julian, that is he became a better, a more generous man than he was. This deep throat source has also revealed that Mr Pearson has been framed for the murder and is only keeping silent to protect someone he loves. A final shocking revelation from this deep throat is that our beloved Arnold Baffin was not as ‘harmless as a fly’ but rather a violent man, as his wife’s often bruised face and eyes testified.

Could this be true? Could Bradley Pearson actually be innocent? The mind boggles. Is this a grave miscarriage of justice?

To find out, please read ‘The Black Prince’ by Iris Murdoch, available from Vintage Classics.

Fooled you.

For never was a story of more woe than this of – sorry, wrong play.

Famous Frontal Development ...

The doorbell rings.

A semi –drunk (who could tell the difference?) Phil Mitchell slouches off the couch and looks outside through the window. Like a bad horror movie no one is outside. He assumes it is kids playing tricks.

The doorbell rings again.

Frustrated, he opens the door and shouts ‘I know who you are!’ in a drunken stupor. He wobbles down two steps, ‘I know who you are the next time I see ya, I’m gonna turn ya backside, do ya hear me?’ Half of Walford probably did mate.

He turns his pack and wobbles up the steps and …imitating some sort of 70s spy movie, the head of a gun peaks out of some leaves.

The gun is fired by someone hiding,

Cut to Phil Mitchell leaning against the wall. He touches his chest, his face twists in agony, he rolls down the steps and falls on his face. He convulses a little, raises his head and with blurry eyes looks about him – does he see the killer run off? Is he dead? The sound of a train gets louder before it mingles with the iconic theme tune which to me has always sounded like somebody using the bald head of the Mithchell brothers as drums.

An epic moment in Eastenders? Probably the last decent storyline in it.

Who shot Phil Mitchell? Come on, out with it, which bugger messed it up and didn’t finish the job?

What I can tell you is that it wasn’t Becky Sharp.

WHO?

Because Becky Sharp isn’t the kind of girl who would mess up a job like that, she’d do it properly, she’d blow him to pieces of chunky raw meat in blood gravy and feed it to her spaniel. Atta girl!


Vanity Fair, an epic triple-decker bus length , contains the essential ingredients for a good soap; from morally corrupt characters to ridiculous self-important oafs to murders and plenty of sex. Becky Sharp, regardless of whether Thackeray intended his audience to like her, is perhaps the most memorable character in any medium of fiction – on paper, on screen (as long as she is not played by the cute Witherspoon) and stage. Not provocatively clad in leather, latex and boots but in Victorian style dress, Becky Sharp possess the brains, ambition and ruthlessness that few women are blessed – or plagued, with. And of course add to that combination - her infamous looks – ‘Green eyes, fair skin, pretty figure, famous frontal development’ (chapter 19). Famous frontal development? With all due respect to her - why did Witherspoon play her I wonder.

It is ‘a novel without a hero’ because almost every character has a ridiculous fault within their nature. Even the insipid and passive but sweet and virtuous Amelia Sedley, who still loves and grieves over her dead and worthless husband. She, however unconsciously, selfishly exploits William Dobbin, the only gentleman in the novel and who has been passionately in love with Amelia Sedley since the moment he sets eyes on her. But he is indeed a true gentleman and never acts on his feelings because Amelia is in love and engaged – and then married through his help, to his close friend George Osborne. But I find that Dobbin has faults too, he is a bad judge of character - he fails to see George Osborne for what he truly is; and then he wastes his affections on Amelia and by the end of the novel realises that he has wasted his entire life pursuing someone who is not worthy. And if I'm completely honest his perpetual self-sacrifical attitude annoyed the hell out of me sometimes. Maybe it's the 'modern' woman in me but he should have been a bit more...'manly'. That's it. He should have declared his feelings much sooner and just generally be a bit more dominant and forceful. Women like that sort of that thing - just read any self-help book.

Amelia is juxtaposed against Becky Sharp throughout the novel, even from the opening chapters. In the first chapter both girls leave Miss Pinkerton’s school for ladies with a very different future ahead of them. Amelia was loved by all and treated as an equal whereas Becky was isolated and disliked because of her social status – the orphaned daughter of an opera singer and a poor artist. The difference? Money of course. Becky herself thinks half way through the novel that with five thousands pounds a year she could be - could be - could be - a good woman.

Rebecca Sharp, the indomitable quintessential anti-heroine, sacrifices all in her path, from husband to friend to son, for her ambition, for money and a place in society. Without a mother to secure her future (as so many mothers found their daughters a rich husband – who must be in want of a wife), Becky Sharp must secure her own future. She almost snares Joseph Sedley, brother of Amelia, early in the novel. Failing that she begins to work a governess to Sir Pitt Crawley’s daughters. His sister, Miss Crawley, is my second favourite character, after Becky, in the novel and one of the few people in Vanity Fair who see through her act. Thackeray out-classes even Dickens in his caricatures. Miss Crawley is a rich old hypochondriac, morally rebellious and has an irrational fear of death – not surprisingly when all her relations are waiting for the moment she keels over so they can have her money. Becky acts as a nurse to her and during that time the old woman becomes attached to her charms and wit and her constant mocking of others. It is during her contact with the Crawleys she meets her future husband – Rawdon Crawley, the son of Pitt Crawley; the heir and favourite of Miss Crawley. He falls in love with Becky Sharp, however, on her part she feels nothing but secretly marries him because his aunt will leave him all her fortune.

However, Miss Crawley is somewhat of a hypocrite. She praises unequal marriages but becomes angry when her nephew makes an unequal match with Becky Sharp. Although she dotes on Becky Sharp and think she is good enough for her brother Sir Pitt Crawley (after Lady Crawley dies), she thinks Becky Sharp is not worthy of her nephew, of her favourite. She becomes outraged when she hears of their clandestine marriage,; that her favourtie should marry a penniless governess and right under her nose too!

Her quasi-rise and success, and her subsequent fall and demise mark Rebecca Sharp as a truly remarkable character. She redeems herself a little at the end of the novel in her only selfless act - towards her old friend Amelia by exposing George for what he truly was. Amelia, under Becky's revelation about her quondam lover, can now let go of the past and stop hero-worshipping her husband; and is able to grasp with both hands her last chance of happiness. Even at the end of the novel the stark differences between the two girls stands. For example, Amelia is younger, and as Gilbert K. Chesterton remarked in 1909:

she has not lost her power of happiness; her stalk is not broken [...] But the energy of Becky is the energy of a dead woman; it is like the rhythmic kicking of some bisected insect [...] The life of the innocent, even the stupidly innocent, is within; [...] Thackeray’s thought is really suggestive; that perhaps even softness is a sort of superiority; it is better to be open to all emotions as they come than to reach the hell of Rebecca; the hell of having all outward forces open, but all receptive organs closed (Bartleby).

Thackeray weaves several plots together like a master craftsman with one common purpose – to expose human folly. Thackeray’s Vanity Fair, despite its length, never gets dull and is a must read, not just for the cheap thrills that a soap can provide you but - far more importantly - for the lessons we can deduce from the text. He removes the thin fragile shroud characters use to cover their true motives and nature to expose a selfish and morally corrupt set of people who fail in their aims in the end; who under false labours pursue what they think they want the most - what they THINK they want the most - after all – ‘Vanitas Vanitatum! Which of us is happy in this world? Which of us has his desire? Or, having it, is satisfied?’

My magic white chair which holds an ongoing scrumptious pile of books

Contrary to popular belief, I have a very large bedroom. Filled with - what I call valuable treasures, what my dear mother calls clutter. The nerve! I'm always worried that I will go home, up the stairs, open the door and wham! It's tidy and empty. It's very tidy, believe me. Just not her version of tidy. If she had her way I'd be left with minimal furniture and no computer or bookshelf, if she's in a good mood she might leave the bed alone!

Next to my dressing table is a magic chair. Forget magic beans, you want this chair. It's white, rickety (is that a word? Should it be crikety? Someone should let me write the dictionary). Where was I - ah, my magic chair.

This magic chair is really vulnerable which is why it is never in use. When you sit on it you always get the impression that any minute now, really, any second now the legs will give away and scenes from your childhood movies will come alive. But it's a magic chair.

It can take the weight of about twenty books.

But not human weight.

I pile books, a handful I don't own (but not stolen), I want to read sometime soon on this chair. And I work my way through it. The problem is that this pile gets bigger and bigger every week. And still the chair does not give away. They must have a mutal understanding, the books and the chair. Sounds like a Chekhov short story doesn't it? 'The Books and the Chair'.
'You're staring to get too heavy for me.' The chair said one day to the books.'Blame it on Dickens' Plath moaned as she looked down from the top of the pile. Should she jump? It's not a bad way to go. Maybe the guy - what was his name? James something, Henry James - maybe he would catch her. Their paths crossed yesterday. They had a brief conversation about the weather. But when she'd got back to the top she got the impression - like she always did after a conversation with him, that he meant something entirely different. She wished the silly man would just say exactly what he meant.

Here's what the pile looks like on 20th January ('R' means I've read it before but I don't feel like I've 'finished' with them - ever get that feeling?) :

Vanity Fair by W. M. Thackeray (R)
The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky
The Black Prince by Iris Murdoch
The Time of the Angels by Iris Murdoch
The sea, The sea by Iris Murdoch (R)
The sea by John Banville
Loitering with Intent by Muriel Spark
The Driver’s seat by Muriel Spark
Memento Mori by Muriel Spark
The Ambassadors by Henry James
Wings of a dove by Henry James (R)S
aturday by Ian McEwan
Atonement by Ian McEwan
The Awakening by Kate Chopin
The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
Espedair Street by Iain Banks
The Bridge by Iain Banks
The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks
The Road by Cormac McCarthy
A passage to India by E.M. Forster
The world according to Garp by John Irving
The story of Edgar Sawtelle by D. Wroblewski
The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemmingway
A thousand splendid suns by Khaled Hosseini

The Guardian 1000 books everyone should read series

1000 novels everyone must read: Love
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009...-love-part-one

1000 novels everyone must read: Crime http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009...crime-part-one

1000 novels everyoone must read: Comedy http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009...omedy-part-one

Breaking News: Angelina Jolie, too busy reading 'Great Expectations', to have sex with husband

Gotcha!

There were rumours - of doubtful veracity - that Angelina Jolie used IVF treatment because she couldn't wait for Brad Pitt to do his part like a dutiful husband but I doubt that act of desperation was because she was too busy reading Great Expectations to have sex with her husband; Hard Times maybe but certainly not Great Expectations. Whether they're having sex or not is not really our business - however important that impotent knowledge may be to our meaningless existence. I've got to be honest - I don't see what is so attractive about Brad Pitt (except maybe in Meet Joe Black) but Angelina Jolie on the other hand - not the 'hottest' in Hollywood in my humble opinion but....*wolf whistle*. That's something for another post, or another blog altogether.

I know instant gratification is the norm and that you came here to read some salacious sensual account of Jolie and Pitt's sex life - which turned out to be rather anti-climactic but you're here now so you might as well stay till the end. Do you really want this to be yet another thing you never finish? I won't be long, promise.

Recently I had a copy of Great Expectations on my desk at work. A colleague remarked 'Great story' and nodded her head with such force that Mr Wemmick's 'aged parent' would be proud of. I, delighted that here was someone who had read such an amazing book and we could share our mutual admiration for it, asked her quite innocently I assure you, 'Have you read it?'. And then came the not so funny punchline - 'Oh no, but I've seen it. And loved it. Wasn't Ethan Hawke just amazing?'

And we left it at that.

If she hadn't mentioned Ethan Hawke and let me thought she meant the 1946 version rather than the buffed up modern version I might have held her in higher regards. So she hasn't got round to reading the book, I would have reasoned if I was in a good mood, but at least she's seen the movie, a true classic in its own right, but no, she'd seen the dumbed down modern version - which is tolerable at best. And I thought to myself how awful it was that people were missing out on a true gem here.

Those who know me intimately will laugh that I of all people am championing the case for Dickens. We've not always had an easy relationship to say the least. In my worst mood I'd call him a show-off (true) and a man who wrote excessively, far more than necessary - also true. Why wasn't he more busy trying to fight off the many illnesses which plagued people at the time? And he is a rather peculiar looking man with candy floss hair but let's not get personal.

However, in a good mood though I would call Dickens a prolific writer, the master of eloquence, in possession of an excellent sense of humour and a most vivid and original imagination. Believe me when I tell you, like Jane Bennet (and Darcy of course) my good opinion is rarely bestowed (like all worthless pseudo-critics). In light of that revelation my compliments may seem more complimentary.

I know his books are long. But worth the read. I know there are words you don't understand - but that means not only is it entertaining but also educational - spoken by a true geek. I don't mind people who have a read a few of his novels and not enjoyed them; you'd probably escape with a few fingers missing but we've got too many anyway. What I do mind is when people call him a bore without ever reading any of his novels. What I'd like to know is how they came to that conclusion. If you've not read anything by Dickens then Great Expectations is a fantastic place to start. I've read it so many times I've lost count. And each time I'm reading it I'm trying to work out what is it exactly that makes this book as good as it is. It's like magic. You try and try to find out how the magician did the trick but try as you might just can't.

The novel is written in first person and charts the life, the 'great expectations' of a 'nobody', of Philip Pirrip, self-named Pip. His parents died when he was an infant, as well as his five siblings - 'who gave up trying to get a living, exceedingly early in that universal struggle' - just an example of Dickens' wit. He was 'brought up by hand' by his silly cruel sister and her kind husband. One day in the marshes he meets a convict who threatens to kill him unless Pip feeds him and helps him escape. Pip, though consumed by guilt, does so but the convict is caught soon after this incident.

Pip is taken by his Uncle Pumblechook to Miss Havisham's gothic house to 'play'. Miss Havisham is a weird eccentric who stays only in the dark, wears an old wedding dress (now slghtly yellowy) and keeps all the clocks in the house stopped at the same time. She deliberately exists 'out of time' in that she has no knowledge of what month or day or time it is. There, at Satis House, he meets Estella, the adopted protege of Miss Havisham. She is beautiful, proud and cruel. Exactly what Miss Havisham teaches her to be. Later on in the novel it is revealed that Miss Havisham was jilted by her lover on her wedding day and that Estella, wanted and admired by all, is her weapon of revenge against men. Miss Havisham teaches her to be cold and distant, to flirt and trap men, like a spider (fitting then that she marries the man Mr Jaggers calls 'Spider') but never to be intimate and loving. What is remarkable is to the extent to which Miss Havisham succeeds.

Estella is cruel and merciless in her treatment of Pip. She knows he idolises her and at one point even makes him cry. Miss Havisham, pleased by her protege's progress, watches on and encourages by drawing his attention to her beauty.

Pip dreams of being a gentleman one day and being worthy of her. He is miserable with or without her, miserable of his life at home because he knows it will only repel Estella and confirm her opinion of him as common.

By a strange reversal of fortune, Pip is adopted by an anonymous gauridan and all dealings are conducted through the lawyer Mr Jaggers. He is taken to London, educated and spent upon by his anonymous guardian to make a gentleman out of him. Pip at first assumes it is Miss Havisham who is his mysterious benefactor; that she is making a gentleman out of him because she has intentions for him to be with Estella. So you can imagine the extent of his despair when he finds out that his mysterious guardian is not Miss Havisham. My lips are sealed now, anymore would give too much away and ruin the novel for you.

I think Great Expectations is one of those universally relevant novels which will always be relevant. Like Miss Havisham, it exists out of time. I think we've all felt inferior to someone we've admired at one point or another and looked for ways to be make ourselves more 'appropriate' for them. A modern example would be pretending to like something we don't in a desperate attempt to impress them. We've all felt quite content and happy with our existence until an event or a person has made us open our eyes and from that moment all that which held colour previously becomes black and white and disgusts us. Like Pip, we've all dreamt of being more than we are, of social mobility, of money and all its 'virtues'. Pip's enduring hope in the face of harsh reality is admirable and human. Even at the end - the revised ending and not the original, which I found ambiguous but more comforting than the original, Pip hopes for something ('no parting' from Estella) which is in no way confirmed. But he hopes and perhaps deceives himself - like we all do - and continues to have 'great expectations' - like we all do. I may sound sentimental but this is sentimental stuff! Note I said sentimental and not corny. A little sentiment here and there might do wonders!

And who knows, Great Expectations may do wonders for Pitt and Jolie's s life, it may not help Jolie get pregnant but three volumes in length it is guaranteed to satifsy her for longer - can Pitt make that claim? Methinks not.

In depth book review of Paul Auster's 'The Music of Chance'

The Music of Chance will always be one of the most memorable books I have ever read. Why? Because I've never found a book so disturbing (not even the likes of Ellis' American Psycho) that I had to stop reading it. I can even pin point the exact sentence I snapped shut the covers of the book and with it a most terrifying world, one that even Brave New World couldn't compare to.

But I did go back to it – noteworthy because I am rarely faithful. Like the protagonist of the novel, Jim Nashe, by the time I understood what was happening I was past the point of wanting it to end. It was only after many brave attempts and a two week lapse that I managed to muster the courage to face the ending. In that two week lapse I read - I'm ashamed to say - a romantic novel by Jude Deveraux. I loved the happy ending, the gorgeous hero and even the soft porn. Forgive me, I have sinned.

Both the elusiveness of the text and the elliptical narrative style will be familiar to fellow Auster fans. If you're looking for a compact novel with neatlty wrapped ribbons at the end, this book or anything by Auster for that matter, isn't for you. If however you're looking for a mental challenge, shivers down your spine (excuse the cliche, I doubt it will be the last) and an agonosing frustrating feeling which will trouble you even when you're trying to sleep then this novel is the book version soulmate for you.

What it all comes down to is chance and the order of events. ‘Sometimes you get lucky, sometimes you don’t’ (p2). It’s interesting that ‘chance’ means both good fortune/luck as well as its opposite - risk/hazard. If Jim Nashe hadn’t inherited by chance a substantial amount of money from his estranged father’s death then there would have been no chance of backing a poker player with a lumpy sum from the inheritance. What is at first good fortune becomes a hazard.

But if he’d only inherited that money just a month before his wife, Therese, left she wouldn’t have walked out on him; leaving him no choice but to take his daughter to his sisters. Free from responsibility he would not have quit his job, taken the wrong ramp on the motorway and therefore he would never have met Pozzi, the poker player. But even if hadn’t inherited the money at all she would never have left him if all his money wasn’t tied up in the rest home his mother had died in. And so on.

Chance meetings and occurrences, we are told, is quite common in Nashe’s life. Even his job as a fireman was the result of a chance encounter with a man he met in his job as a taxi driver. He talked Nashe into the taking the fire exam and he does so on a whim and achieves the highest grade that year. The other man was turned down but Nashe was offered a job. If we’re going to be very obvious and analytical the very essence of his job is governed by chance – you go on a job as a fireman and there is 50/50 chance you will return. It’s a risky business. Which he packs in and takes to travelling around America, just him, his car, his music and the open road and all its tantalising promises. The similarity to Keruoacs’s On the Road ends there, I promise. Actually I liked On the Road but that’s a journey for another time.

Jack Pozzi

A year and two days into this new lifestyle and with just over fourteen thousand dollars left he meets Jack Pozzi. Although generally Nashe refused to help hitchhikers (for obvious reasons) he cannot resist slowing down to observe this small, thin limping figure. It becomes apparent that Jack Pozzi isn’t drunk like Nashe first assumed but just badly beaten. ‘His clothes were torn, his face was covered with welts and bruises, and from the way he stood there as the car approached, he scarcely seemed to know where he was.’ (p19, Faber and Faber, 2006).

Despite what his instincts tell him, Nashe offers him a ride. And Pozzi accepts.

In case you’re thinking ‘this sounds familiar’ let me assure you that Pozzi does no turn out to be some psychopath who ties Nashe between two moving vehicles and rip him apart. That memorable scene is from The Hitcher – the 1986 version. Pozzie doesn’t butcher and decapitate Nashe. You’re wrong. So sit tight and read on.

Actually – talk about chance - I’ve just remembered Jim is the name of the man who offers the hitcher a ride and Nash is the pretty waitress he meets who is torn into half. Jim Nash(e). Wow. This can’t be a coincidence. Has anyone noticed this? Remember you read it here first! I think this calls for a separate post on some sort of comparison between the two. Maybe sometime next year. Sigh.

In the car, Pozzi and Nashe strike up an easy conversation. Pozzi explains that earlier in the evening he was in a poker game with lawyers and corporate hot shots. Towards the end of the game their poker game was hijacked and the thugs left with their money. Pozzi is blamed –

‘It’s just like I told you, Gil, you can’t bring riffraff into a game like this’
‘What are you talking about George?’ Gil says and George says ‘Figure it out for yourself, Gil. We play every month for seven years and nothing ever goes wrong. Then you tell me about this punk kid who’s supposed to be a good player and twist my arm to bring him up, and look what happens. I had eight thousand dollars sitting on that table and I don’t take kindly to a bunch of thugs walking off with it’ (p27)

Playing for seven years and not once anything out of the ordinary. The one time Pozzi comes along they are robbed! Is Auster making a point or what.

Pozzi informs Nashe that the day after tomorrow he has a poker game – one of the biggest games of his life. Now with no money and little potential money he’s going to have to pull out.

Now what do you think happened next? I mean here is a young man who claims to be an excellent impeccable poker player but has no money to enter the big game. Next to him you have Nashe, who has been on the road for quite a while, has quite a large lump of money left but not enough to continue funding his life on the road. Is the suspense killing you?

If it isn’t already obvious Nashe offers to help. Pozzi needs just under ten thousand pounds. Nashe tells him it’s a big risk, there is always the chance of losing to which Pozzi replies confidently ‘Sure there’s a risk. We’re talking poker here, that’s the name of the game. But there’s no way I could have lost. I’ve already played with those clowns once. It would have been a piece of cake.’ (p28).

The ‘clowns’ he refers to are two reclusive millionaires, Flower and Stone, ‘a regular comedy team’. Six or seven years ago they shared a lottery ticket and won twenty seven million dollars. Pozzi calls them Laurel and Hardy because one is fat and the other is thin. Seems fair enough to me. Nashe offers to help him out providing they split the profit 50-50. Pozzi agrees.

So ends chapter two. Chapter two I hear you exclaim. I write too much.

Nashe feels a change come over him immediately. Chapter three begins with the following words: ‘Nashe understood that he was no longer behaving like himself.’ He realizes that putting most of his money behind a foul mouthed impudent kid is risky but the risk motivates him: ‘It was a crazy scheme, perhaps, but the risk was a motivation in itself, a leap of blind faith that would prove he was finally ready for anything that might happen to him’ (p33). I love the idea of being ready for anything/something that MIGHT happen to you. Pozzi was simply a means to an end. Nashe was just going to use him and once that job was finished they would go their separate ways. What actually transpires is that Nashe becomes a fatherly figure of sort to the young man; they develop a close bond. But they do go their separate ways in the end. If you can call it that.

In New York they stay at the Plaza Hotel. Nashe pays for accommodation and food and takes Pozzi shopping for clothes.

Once Pozzi is safely tucked in bed, Nashe settles down with Rousseau’s Confessions. This is probably my favourite part of the novel. Just before he falls asleep he comes to the passage where the author is standing in a forest. He throws a stone at a tree, telling himself that if it strikes the tree his life will be better from this moment. However he misses. He moves closer to the tree and tells himself the same thing and throws the stone. Again he misses. He tells himself that was just a warm up and moves closer to the tree just to make sure he doesn’t miss. Again he reassures himself that if he strikes the tree his life will be better from that moment on. Now only a foot a away from the tree he strikes the tree. He doesn’t miss this time. Success! From this moment on life will be better, so he tells himself.

Nashe is moved and embarrassed by such naked self-deception and then falls asleep and dreams he is in the forest in which the wind sounds like shuffling cards.

By pinning his hopes on Pozzi is he deceiving himself like Rousseau? I’d say yes. Though he ‘tests’ Pozzi’s skills he is not entirely confident that they will win. He is deceiving himself and he knows it. Perhaps each stone Rousseau throws is like each hand at poker. You’ve lost this hand but never mind, you’ll win the next hand, or the next, or the next. And then everything will be fine. So you reassure yourself. I’m sure more can be said about this but I lack the eloquence.

Flower and Stone

On their way to the grand residence of the Flower and Stone they lightly banter with each other and Pozzi decides he will introduce Nashe as his brother. Some 'hireling', Murks, opens the gate and in they go.

Once inside they are taken to a ‘self consciously masculine room’ (p62) and Flower and Stone are dressed in white summer suits. The two men seem to be opposites of the same coin. Flower is talkative with a blustery humour whereas Stone is silent and observant. Stone, as his name implies has more gravitas.

Once all four mean are seated Flower tells them the story of how they struck it rich, with Stone adding a comment here and there. The turning point in the conversation comes when Flower informs Pozzi that they have been practicing everyday and night since they last played and have even taken lessons from a man called Sid Zeno – ‘one of the top half dozen players in the game’(p69) according to Pozzi.

Pozzi and Nashe are given a tour of the house and by the second room Nashe becomes annoyed by the boorish vain Flower who rarely neglects to mention what each thing cost – true to his quondam profession (accountant). They move onto the second floor and are ushered into a large room to show Stone’s creation, inside the room is a miniature model of a city with fastidious attention to detail. ‘It was a marvelous thing to behold, with its crazy spires and lifelike buildings, its narrow street and microscopic human figures, and as the four of them approached the platform, Nashe began to smile, astounded by the sheer invention and elaborateness of it all.’ (p77).

Stone called it ‘The City of the World’ and it reflects the way Stone would like the world to be, his ‘utopia’. For example, prisoners working happily at various tasks because they are glad that they are being punished for their crimes and hope to find their inner goodness again through hard work. It appears to be a pleasant enough place to live in.

Whereas Stone liked to make and create things, Flower liked to collect things. Flower’s half of the east wingo on the second floor is the exact opposite of Stone’s. Instead of one large open area he had divided the area into a network of smaller rooms. Each room is ‘choked’ with a plethora of collectable items, such as furniture, books cases, rugs, plants etc. Flower, immensely proud of his collection, fails to realise how silly it all looks, what he calls ‘gems’ and ‘treasures’ might be junk and worthless to another. It strikes me as a selfish thing to do, to consume and collect objects for a private collection (which I’m guessing he would rarely have time to admire) and thereby depriving others of a chance to see such treasured objects.

Most amazing item in his collection is a fifteenth century Irish castle destroyed by Oliver Cromwell. Yep, you read right. When there were on holiday there Stone and Flower came across the ruins of the castle, no more than a heap of stones. Flower had decided to buy it and it was shipped to America. Over ten thousand stones loaded on to a truck and then on to a ship. No wonder if cost a ‘bundle’. It now sits in their large back garden.

Nashe asks ‘you’re not planning on rebuilding the thing, are you?’ (p77). The idea seems grotesque to him. They can’t rebuild the castle because too many pieces are missing. Instead they plan to build a grand wall with the stones, ‘A Wailing Wall.’ Poor Nashe. Unbeknown to him it will be him and Pozzzi who will be building the ‘waling wall’. But more of that later.

The Poker Game

Once the ground rules of the poker game are settled the poker game begins. Nashe takes a seat behind Pozzi. The first few hands are undramatic. Flower and Stone have improved as poker players but Pozzi’s patience prevails and finally he is sitting on a large sum, twenty seven thousand dollars to be specific. As they begin to open a new deck of cards Nashe uses the interruption for a bathroom break. He feels like he can relax and let Pozzi out of his sight, the kid knows what he is doing.

He intended to go straight back to the game but instead ends up taking a stroll around the house. He spends nearly an hour looking at the ‘City of the World’. Now that he has time to take a closer look at this utopian city it takes on a sinister atmosphere. Especially the prison. ‘In one corner of the exercise yard, the inmates were talking in small groups, playing basketball, reading books; but then, with a kind of horror, he saw a blindfolded prisoner standing against the wall just behind them, about to be executed by a firing squad. […] For all the warmth and sentimentality depicted in the model, the overriding mood was one of terror’ (p87). The earlier admiration disappears and to him it appears to be a city of war, not utopia but a sort of totalitarian state.

He is just about to leave the room but then on impulse he turns around and walks back to the model. Without feeling any guilt he jerks at the miniature wooden version of Flower and Stone until it snaps and then shoves the ‘souvenirs’ into his pocket. It was the first time he had stolen anything since he was a little boy, but it was absolutely necessary and he knew that in the same way he knew his name.

Nashe returns to the poker game to find Pozzi losing. Later on Pozzi blames Nashe for his change of fortuune. His break effected Pozzi's momentum and later when Nashe shows him what he stole Pozzi becomes convinced it was that act which turned the tide for them. Logic tells us that Nashe's decision to take the miniature dolls should have no effect on Pozzi's game. The two are not connected in anyway. Clearly Auster is showing how people connect and make meaning out a seemingly meaningless act or event, exactly what Auster is guilty of in this novel.

Pretty soon Pozzi loses all his chips and Nashe sells his car to the millionaires for five thousand chips. However the ‘emergency transfusion’ doesn’t work and Pozzi loses that too. Now they have nothing, not even a car to get out of there. They strike a deal – despite Flower’s warning not to make things worse – that if they win the next hand they win the car back, if however they lose Nashe and Pozzi then owe the millionaires ten thousand pounds. A sum that matches the number of stones to the Irish castle which seems to foreshadow what will happen next.

Pozzi loses that final hand.

Nashe and Pozzi must now come up with a plan to clear their debt. Stone makes them an offer – that they build the ‘wailing wall’ mentioned earlier, ‘honest work for an honest wage’ (p97). I thought it was quite fitting that it is Stone, the maker of the city who should propose this idea. The whole idea of working for your freedom stinks of the Nazis and the Third Regime – arbeit macht frei, just the sort of totalitarian doctrine Stone would approve of.

Though outraged at first they accept and a contract is drawn up. In the meadow they have a fully equipped mobile home, work clothes would be provided as well basic essentials such as food and if there was anything else they desired all they had to do was ask. At ten dollars each for an hour’s labour they would earn twenty dollars an hour. If they worked ten hours a day that would come to two hundred dollars a day. It would then take them fifty days to make up the ten thousand dollars. Nashe offers a way out for Pozzi, that he would be happy to do the work alone but Pozzi won’t hear of it. The contract is drawn up and all four sign it. The maid makes them a meal, whereas before she was pleasant and welcoming this time she is rude and even aggressive. Nashe realises that whereas before they were guests they were now reduced to hired hands, not worthy of the maid's respect and endeavour.

The Wailing Wall

And so the labour begins. The hireling, Murks, who had opened the gate earlier supervises over them. Murks assists with the move to the mobile home and they make a list of essentials, food, newspapers, cards etc. With no phone in the house and no view of the Flower and Stone residence they really are cut off from the world. Anything could happen and no one would be any wiser.

The slow labour begins. And by slow I mean excruciatingly slow. First the foundation must be laid, then one stone at a time and on top of each other to build the height. And it was monotonous. Their task parallels the task of Sisyphus. Though the stones do not roll back a sloped hill, it is essentially the same task over and over again. It is absurd. Perhaps it typifies the absurdity of the human condition far more than Sisyphus' example does because unlike Sisyphus, Pozzi and Nashe are sentenced to this punishment out of chance, they are sentences to this punishment because of something out of their control. Chance events brought each of them on that road for the fulfillment of a chance encounter, followed by defeat in a game governed by chance. Like human life, events which appear out of their control make them bear the consequences. All is not well.

The wall is menacing and all that it connotes, a barrier, a restriction. The closer the become to finishing their ‘time’ and therefore to escaping the more they close themselves in. It is slightly poignant that they are building the very wall which prevents their escape, like when victims are forced to dig their own graves. I can’t even begin to imagine what that would feel like.

Things become slightly sinister when Murks starts wearing a gun after a brawl with Pozzi. Now they are in ‘real’ danger. Whereas before the danger was never visible, never real but just a feeling they had, an atmosphere created, it is now very real in the shape of a gun.

The end of fifty days arrives but Pozzi and Nashe decide to stay on a bit longer to make a little money for themselves. They decide to have a celebration on the night they would have left and no expense is spared – caviar, lobster, cake, champagne and a prostitute for Pozzi. Murks informs Nashe that though Flower and Stone didn’t approve they accepted and would get them everything they needed for the party. Nashe’s instincts tell him that Flower and Stone are not the sort of people who splashed out for other people’s party and it puts him on his guard.

The party is eventful, to say the least, for Pozzi.

After a small period, in which they accumulate money for themselves, their ‘release’ day arrives. Pozzi is excited beyond words. Nashe, on the other hand, just felt empty and numb. Murks arrives with a single sheet of typed paper.

On reading the contents of the paper and realising in less than a second what it meant I closed the book very slowly and left it on my desktop out of sight for a period of two weeks.

What was on the paper?

I’ve not mustered the courage to talk about it yet so you will just have to read it for yourself.

Random

The Nation's favourite 'concave' crisp is not actually 'concave' as Paul Merton once assumed on Have I got News for You. Nope, it's 'hyperbolic paraboloid'. What am I doing?? I feel a rant coming on, early mid-life crisis. Quick, sign off.....