16 November
The Greatest Novel Ever Written
You ask, ‘What is the greatest novel ever written?’ You really want me to tell you that? Do you think it’s possible to know, possible for me to give you an even semi-intelligent answer to that question?
I could fall back on hearsay. I could say War and Peace or Don Quixote or Remembrance of Things Past. Only I’ve never read those books. I could say Moby-Dick or Crime and Punishment or Ulysses because I have read them but would that make my choice any more credible? That would just be me saying I’ve read these books. I wouldn’t have to remember much about them. I wouldn’t have to have enjoyed them. That might be a disqualification. Should you enjoy the greatest novel ever written? If you enjoy Len Deighton, Agatha Christie or J. K. Rowling can you enjoy Tolstoy or Joyce? This is literature, after all. Let me rephrase that: this is Literature, after all. Literature is to be endured, not enjoyed. It should be a challenge, an effort, a struggle from which you emerge triumphant on the final page, even if you have no idea what you’ve been through. It should be an achievement, not an amble. Otherwise, what’s the difference? Where’s the sense of superiority, the reason for self-congratulation?
Is that what you’re looking for? Superior wisdom? For me to tell you, with authority, what the greatest novel ever written is, so that you can go and read it, and then say with almost equal authority, ‘That’s the greatest novel ever written’? You’re looking for a short cut, is that it? You don’t have time to read all the other novels in the world, but if someone whose judgement you trust identifies the greatest ever written then you’ll not have to bother with fiction ever again? Because how could any other novel match the qualities of the greatest? It’s impossible.
Well, I have written the answer to your question and sealed it in this envelope. You will inherit it on my death.
Actually it isn’t the answer. It’s a semi-informed guess. That’s the best I could do and I don’t wish to be around to witness your disappointment, surprise, anger or disbelief.
17 November
Edge
Not so long ago he noticed something about his wanderings. He saw a repetition that had previously escaped him. He noticed how he often ended up on beaches.
It came to him, this realisation, when he was nowhere near a beach. He was at home, in the kitchen, eating buttered toast. He’d poured a mug of tea and made toast, or someone had, and then he was on a beach. He was startled by the vividness of the thought. It was just as if he’d had to jump back because a wave was suddenly about to soak his shoes and socks. Yet his feet under the table were dry and warm. He looked at the toast on the plate, the steaming mug, pushed them away. They were irrelevant. They made no sense. He was on a beach.
Why beaches again and again? He glanced up and down, trying to identify this one by what was on it. Chunks of driftwood, bleached and bone-like. Seaweed clumps like markers on a big board. Gull tracks going nowhere. The swarming corpse of a gull. Feathers and shells. A headland in the distance. He peered. He recognised that coastline. No, he didn’t. It could have been anywhere.
He thought, When did I last go out?
He thought, Why do I go to the sea? Do I go because I like what’s there or because I don’t?
You can go no further than the end of dry land, the start of salt water. Especially in winter, and this was winter. The salt wind cut his face, spume rolled and skipped over the hard sand. The edge between the land and the sea was decisive. Either you got your feet wet or you jumped back from the dismissive waves. Either you waded in or you didn’t.
Nobody else was on the beach, nobody to see him or stop him. It was his choice.
Another possibility was up in the hills. Snow, and a bottle of whisky.
But a beach was better. A definite edge.
Once he saw this, the repetition made sense. And this understanding took him to beaches more and more. He wandered, if not with purpose, then with intent.
18 November
Frost
She was still in shock when they collected their coats and said goodbye. Independently and in silence they negotiated the frosted pavements to the car. Nothing was said as she started the engine and put the fan on full blast to clear the windscreen. After a minute or two she pulled out. Still not a word since leaving the party. Maybe he didn’t speak because he was slightly drunk. Or maybe he had nothing to say to her. Or he had something but didn’t know how to say it.
She was sober. That was why she was driving. She could have done with a drink. She could still hear his voice: ‘Well, you know when it’s over, don’t you? For us, it’s been over for years. We need to end it and move on.’
His voice in the kitchen. The words not said to her but they might as well have been. She’d been about to go in to help and something stopped her, some sense that she shouldn’t push open the not fully closed door. And she heard that. Sure, he could have been speaking about a business contract or the Scotland–UK thing or some other breakdown she couldn’t imagine but she knew it wasn’t any of those, it was about him and her, their marriage, and he was saying it was over, and she didn’t go in, she retreated back into the party and a minute later he appeared carrying trays of food, followed by their hostess. And she thought, They’re not having an affair, surely? But the hostess was his oldest friend, from university. She’d be the one he’d confide in, in that casual, practical way.
She drove through the empty streets, the silence. It wasn’t him in the car with her, it was his presence.
Say something, she thought.
‘Did you enjoy that?’ she asked.
He said, ‘It was all right for me. You’re the one that didn’t get a drink.’
‘I didn’t want one.’
He reached forward to put some music on.
‘Don’t,’ she said.
He sat back.
‘Talk to me,’ she said.
‘What do you want me to say?’ he asked.
So then she knew it was true.
19 November
Radio Free Radio
When you switched the radio on it had to warm up, you know, it warmed up and then it became something live. If you put your ear against the cloth in front of the speaker it vibrated, it buzzed. Everything came through the radio, into the house, the room, your head. It was a highway heading off into the distance and you rode out on it, and then it split into more roads and traffic was coming and going in every direction, you were dodging it, jumping on and off buses, climbing on the back of a flatbed lorry just for the thrill. That’s what the radio did, it opened up roads and possible journeys in your head. You’d be listening to Mozart or Beethoven and then later it would be Bartók or Stockhausen and your mind was trying to absorb how all this could be music, and you were half not listening too, dreaming, imagining everything out there, and you turned the dial and people were speaking in some language, you tried to work out what it was, Danish or Russian or German, and just when you thought they had nothing to say to you anyway they paused to listen, you heard them be quiet so that they could hear something and what they were waiting for was this other music, and it began, and it was jazz, modern jazz, and this was being played and heard and talked about right around the world, and then you turned the dial again, or switched from long wave to medium wave to short wave, and things found you by accident – plays, highbrow discussions, folk songs, or some old blues singer, a ghost, whose scratchy voice was somehow coming at you from behind that buzzing cloth. And the signals roamed and collided and faded in the darkness and came round again and you knew there was more life out there than you could ever experience but you wanted it all. And it was different, radio, from television. When television came it didn’t liberate your mind, it didn’t expand it, it hooked and held it, and that wasn’t the same thing. It was radio that set you free.
20 November
Jack and the Devil
The Devil wanted to lead Jack astray so he turned himself into a beautiful woman who asked Jac
k to escort her to a casino in the nearest town.
‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ says Jack, noting the hairy toes sticking out of her glittery high-heeled shoes.
Jack had only enough money to buy a single chip. The Devil gave him another to keep it company, and showed him to the roulette table.
‘Put them both on a single number, Jack, and let’s see if we can make your fortune,’ the Devil whispered in his lug.
‘Naw, naw,’ says Jack, and he puts one chip on red and the other on black. When the ball stops spinning he finds he’s lost on the red but won on the black.
‘Still in the game,’ he says. ‘I’ll dae the same again.’
For twenty minutes Jack didn’t tire of winning and losing every time, but both the croupier and the Devil were becoming impatient.
‘Here’s another chip, Jack. Live a little,’ the Devil said huskily, leaning forward to give him a wee glimpse of what that might entail. ‘Why not put it on a single number?’
‘Naw, we’ll pit it on red, tae match your frock,’ says Jack.
When red comes up, Jack turns and says, ‘Ye see? I hae a system gaun here.’
‘Leave all your chips on red and you’ll double them again,’ the Devil urged.
‘Och, I’ll just pit twa o them on black,’ says Jack.
This time black comes up.
‘Richt again,’ he says, ‘and aye the fower chips. Whit luck I’m haein the nicht!’
After another hour Jack was back down to two chips but still enjoying himself. The croupier threw Jack off the table, so he took his chips and handed one back to the Devil.
‘Weel,’ he said, ‘I think ye’ll agree that was a grand spree and it cost heehaw.’
At this the Devil lost his temper and cast off his disguise. ‘This is hopeless,’ he said. ‘I’m supposed to be tempting you but you’re beyond temptation.’
‘Och, it’s yersel!’ says Jack. ‘I thocht ye was a lassie. Temptin me, were ye? And there was me thinkin I was temptin you!’
21 November
Café Limbo (1)
A bell above the door jingled as I entered. It was an unostentatious place, with red checked tablecloths and wooden chairs, and a scattering of customers.
A waiter wearing a black apron, black waistcoat and red bow tie approached me. His demeanour was very calm – I knew instantly that he was good at his job.
‘For one, sir?’ He led me to a small round table in a corner. I sat down. He brought over a menu, the laminated kind that indicates standard, unchanging fare.
‘Coffee, tea or chocolate, sir?’ he asked, and the odd thing was that I did suddenly want a hot drink, though I had not known it a moment before.
‘Coffee, please,’ I said. ‘Black, no sugar.’
‘Certainly, sir.’ But he lingered, producing a pad and pencil.
‘I haven’t had a chance to decide on food yet,’ I said.
‘That’s all right, sir. Take your time. Your name, please?’
‘My name? What for?’
He gazed at me with kindly eyes.
‘Would it be Brogan, sir?’
‘No, it’s Robson.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ He made a mark on his pad. I was about to remonstrate when the bell jingled and a fat, bald man, red in the face, came in. The waiter moved towards him as if on wheels.
‘For one, sir?’
The fat man allowed himself to be led to a table. I heard the waiter offer him a hot drink. He opted for tea. The waiter asked if his name was Brogan. The man shook his head and the waiter made a mark on his pad.
At that moment I realised that I had no idea why I had come into the café, or even what town I was in. I looked at the other customers. I recognised nobody. There was no reason why I should. Nevertheless …
‘Waiter!’ I called.
‘One moment, sir.’
He had gone to the door, and was peering out into the gathering dark. I saw him glance at his watch.
When he came to my table he seemed somewhat anxious.
‘Something wrong?’ I asked.
‘It’s Mr Brogan,’ he said. ‘He should be here by now. All the rest of you are.’
‘Where?’ I asked. ‘Where is here?’
22 November
Café Limbo (2)
Apart from the fat man who was not Mr Brogan, there were five other customers: an elderly couple, an old man on his own, a younger woman reading a book, and a child of about ten. The old people sat patiently and silently: they had finished their hot drinks. The child had an air of bewilderment about her. I imagined someone had left her while they went to a shop or a cash machine.
It was dark outside. The waiter kept consulting his watch. Once he opened the door and peered up and down the street. Of that street I had absolutely no recollection.
The waiter came back in, shut the door and locked it. At this, the young woman closed her book. We all focused on the waiter, who addressed us from the middle of the room.
‘We cannot wait any longer,’ he said. ‘Mr Brogan is unaccountably late.’
‘Late for what?’ said the fat man.
There was the sound of running feet, then a crash against the café door. A frightened voice shouted, ‘Help! Let me in!’
The waiter advanced rapidly, but not to open the door. There were bolts at the top and bottom and he shot these home.
Shadowy figures passed by the window. The same voice called again, ‘Help me!’ This was followed by thuds and blows and a scream of pain.
Now we were all on our feet. ‘They are beating him up!’ I said.
‘I fear so,’ the waiter said.
‘Well, let him in for God’s sake.’
‘It is too late.’
The sounds of violence continued. The voice was sobbing, begging for mercy. Then it grew more distant.
‘They’re dragging him away!’ said the old man, his face against the glass. ‘A gang of them.’
‘For God’s sake, call the police if you won’t open the door,’ the fat man said.
‘The police won’t come,’ the waiter said. ‘There are no police.’
‘They’re going to kill him.’
‘No. They can’t.’
‘At least let us out so we can help him, if you won’t,’ the fat man said.
‘You can’t help him either. I’m sorry. And we can’t wait any longer.’
‘What are we waiting for?’ the child asked.
23 November
Café Limbo (3)
The child’s question was both wise and innocent. ‘What are we waiting for?’ And the waiter – he who waited upon us – granted her his most benevolent smile.
The murderous sounds from the street had ceased, and the waiter’s equanimity was returning. I remembered my first impression – that he was a man who was good at his job.
He’d said they could not kill Mr Brogan, but what had he meant? That they – whoever they were – could not kill him, or that Mr Brogan could not be killed? Who was Mr Brogan, and why had he been late in arriving, and for what? Who were we, our little group of strangers? How had the waiter come by our names, and why did he have them?
I scanned the faces of the other adult customers and I could see all those questions, and more besides, swirling in their eyes. And then I looked at the child, and heard again her question. And the waiter was grateful to her, because she was asking not so much about the purpose as about the delay. She did not want to postpone whatever was going to happen next.
What happened was that the waiter said, ‘If you would kindly follow me, I will show you to the other exit.’
There was no dissent. The waiter led, the child followed him, and we all followed the child. There was a counter behind which was all the apparatus of a café – coffee machines, bottles and jars, cutlery and crockery, stacked menus, serviettes and tablecloths, surfaces for food preparation, sinks, hobs and fridges. Everything was clean and cold. There was no food to prepare. No one was there except for us and our waiter.<
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Down a corridor we went, to a door with a fire escape sign on it, and a bar to release the door. The waiter stood aside. ‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘Good luck.’
The old lady fumbled at her handbag. ‘What do we owe you?’ she said, but he shook his head, to show that there was nothing to pay.
Then the child pushed the bar, and the door swung open, and one after another we stepped out into the starry night.
24 November
The Illiterate Hordes of History Have Their Say
You think you saved us from savagery with your lines and circles and dots. You think you liberated us from ignorance. You did the very opposite. We were alive and you killed the spirit of life that was in us. We roamed freely and you tethered us. We knew no boundaries and you fenced us in. We had a natural philosophy and you destroyed it and put utilitarianism in its place.
You built roads through our country where before were only paths and landmarks. We had songs and stories as our guides and you covered them over with maps. You tied down the stories, choked and shackled them. Books are their prisons. You hunted the songs, caught them with nets and traps, and then complained when they were wrongly sung, but it was you who wronged them.
You promised that the world of writing and reading would have no limits. You lied. You narrowed our vision, you clogged our minds with information we did not need and you destroyed our ability to remember the things we cherished most. Once, we knew our ancestors even to the twentieth generation, and they were with us always, through our days and through our nights. Once, our history was in our blood. Now it is dead, and our people squabble over the scraps and bones which are all that survive.
Once, we read the weather, the seasons, the prints of animals, the healing powers of plants, the mysteries and dangers of the forest. Once, the world was our library and we wrote messages among its stacks. The rain came, or the sun – storm or fire – and in the aftermath our library still stood and our marks could be written again.
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