Today I finished reading James Meek’s acclaimed novel published in paperback by Canongate in 2006:
Set in the period between the end of the First World War and the Russian Revolution this is a book of Twenty-First Century Modernity and beyond.
Much more than a murder mystery story involving deception, cannibalism, religious fanaticism, self-mutilation, war, and terrorism this work discusses humanity’s dual nature present in all of us, and what we present to others. Ultimately, who can be trusted with anything?
Reflecting on the title, what is the act of love? There are various manifestations including and beyond physical “mechanisms”, depending on the views and behaviour of the main protagonists. Meek’s description of the normal physical act is sensitive and beautifully detailed.
With the breadth and scope of one of the great Russian novels couched in the spare precision of an award-winning journalist constrained by allotted space having the ability to expand with more lengthy description engaging all the senses, Meek judges the pace of this story providing perfect word pictures. “The locomotive came over the bridge, a dark green beast streaked with pale corrosion, like malachite, creeping across the thin span with a string of cattle wagons in tow. The whistle sounded down the gorge and the weight of the train bore down on rotting sleepers with the groan of wood and the scream of unlubricated iron and steel. It crawled on as if there were many ways to choose instead of one and flakes of soot and pieces of straw drifted through the air towards the river. One of the wagons was rocking from side to side and above the noise of the engine and the train there was a hacking sound as if someone was taking an axe to a plank.” or “When Elizaveta ‘Timurovna fell silent it was light and tranquil in the dining room, with windows on two sides, dust spinning in sunbeams, the ticking of a clock and the swish of cloth as the maid…..poured tea.”
Other similes and metaphors include: “He was looking inside the bag. His hands fluttered against the inner sides, like a trapped bird, getting madder.” “…..the striding cacophony of important boots was already out of hearing.” “…took so many bullets in the neck that his head popped back like the stopper on a beer bottle.”
The author deals well with dialogue in which he displays a complex knowledge of human nature, including the power of group pressure and the herd instinct.
Of 1919 we are told “It’s a different kind of war. One where you can’t understand who is on which side.” Like much of this work it is so relevant to today. We have already moved from the age of hussars honourably facing each other wielding sabres to destruction from the skies inflicted without even seeing those being killed; taken to a horrifying new level in the 21st century where there appear to be no acceptable rules.
Early photography; a lengthy letter; group meetings; elaborate, fabricated, descriptions of imagined environments; are all devices employed to present the story.
This evening we dined on oven battered cod and chips; baked beans, and fresh tomatoes with which I drank a glass of the Malbec opened two days ago.
