ALL HIGH TALK AND LOW FROLICS:

Part I ("My Other Secret Life")

I first encountered the Judge, professionally, in Court.

Early in my career, I appeared in the Family Court 400 times over two years. 50 or so appearances would have been before him.

He was a precise and impatient judge. He had little tolerance for fools or the lazy or the unprepared. My reputation, some of which he would have contributed to, was that I anticipated what a judge wanted and I gave it to him. I use the masculine pronoun, because although the Chief Justice was a woman, all of the local judges with whom I dealt were men.

At the same time, I was the Deputy Chairman of the Institute of Modern Art. The Judge's wife, Nancy, was a lecturer in Art at the University, and frequently attended our monthly openings. On one occasion, she introduced me to her guest, an academic and writer from New York called Lucy, whose specialty was Pop Art. They invited me to Lucy's lecture later that week, and I duely attended.

Afterwards, at drinks, Nancy made to introduce me to her husband, but he stopped her suddenly, saying, "I'm well acquainted with Mr Graye's other side. He's one of the few I can rely on to do his job."

I replied that he was one of the few judges who made it a pleasure and a privilege. I had never lost a case in front of him, even though it wasn't meant to be an adversarial jurisdiction.

Later, Lucy mentioned that, if I was ever in New York, I should feel free to visit her. As it turned out, I was planning a visit to San Francisco, New York and London the following March, in 1982.

At this point, the Judge offered to give me a letter of introduction to a friend of his, who was the director of an art institute in London.

He also hinted that he might ask a reciprocal favour of me. As it turned out, his friend, Victor Maskell wished to give him a much treasured work of art, and the Judge was hoping I would deliver it back to him at the end of my trip. I was, in effect, to be an art courier for the Judge and his friend.

"The Admirable Detachment of the Scholar"

Victor Maskell was sitting at the desk in his study. He was a well-known art historian, Keeper of the Queen's Pictures, and Director of the highest profile art institute in Britain.

However, outside, the turbulence of life continued. A writer (a contemporary historian, "whatever that is") had exposed his long-term spying activities in a book that was about to be published, and the newspapers had got onto the story. What would he do? Defect? Commit suicide? Confess? Make a fool of himself? Disgrace himself?

No, he sat down at his desk to write a version of the events. He doesn't necessarily seek to make himself look good or to add "yet another burnished mask" to the collection he has already assembled.

Instead, he adopts a metaphor from the world of art:

"Attribution, verification, restoration. I shall strip away layer after layer of grime - the toffee-coloured varnish and caked soot left by a lifetime of dissembling - until I come to the very thing itself and know it for what it is. My soul. My self."

Inevitably, he laughs at his pretence, so that, as beautifully written as this work is, we don't know whether it is genuine or whether it is the product of a truly unreliable narrator.

He's more than capable of misleading us. He has been interrogated for years and never broken down. A journalist (or is she a writer or a spy?) (Serena Vandeleur) approaches him to obtain his cooperation in writing a biography, so, ironically, this work is his bid to pre-empt hers. He wants to define himself his way, rather than simply supply answers to someone else's probing questions. He wants to paint his own picture, make his own self-portrait, rather than sit for someone else's version.

Like everybody else, Miss Vandeleur just wants to know "Why did you do it?"

To which Maskell responds:

"Why? Oh, cowboys and indians, my dear. Cowboys and indians."

Then he adds: "It was true, in a way. The need for amusement, the fear of boredom: was the whole thing much more than that, really, despite all the grand theorising? And hatred of America, of course...The defence of European culture."

Describing him as a spy underestimates him:

"I was a connoisseur, you know, before I was anything else."

Maskell thinks of his work as an edifice that he is building. Though, it's hard to tell whether it's a construction or a fabrication or a realisation of something hidden from view:

"We were latterday Gnostics, keepers of a secret knowledge, for whom the world of appearances was only a gross manifestation of an infinitely subtler, more real reality known only to the chosen few, but the iron, ineluctable laws of which were everywhere at work. This gnosis was, on the material level, the equivalent of the Freudian conception of the unconscious, that unacknowledged and irresistible legislator, that spy in the heart...

"At our lightest we seemed to ourselves possessed of a seriousness far more deep, partly because it was hidden, than anything our parents could manage, with their vagueness and lack of any certainty, any rigour, above all, their contemptibly feeble efforts at being good. Let the whole sham fortress fall, we said, and if we can give it a good hard shove, we will. 'Destruam et aedificabo', as Proudhon was wont to cry."

I destroy in order to build. This is the rationale behind support of a revolutionary cause. Though Maskell himself is more of a theorist than an activist. Even then he refers to the "crassness" of "trying to turn theory into action, in the same way that I despised the Cambridge physicists of my day for translating pure mathematics into applied science."

Still, Maskell confesses that even the theory was sketchy at best. He was no philosopher-spy:

"'There must be action,' I said, with the doggedness of the dogmatist. 'We must act, or perish.'

"That is, I'm afraid, the way we talked.

"'Oh, action!' Nick said, and this time he did laugh. 'Words, for you, are action. That's all you do - jaw jaw jaw.'"

"It was all selfishness, of course; we did not care a damn about the world, much as we might shout about freedom and justice and the plight of the masses. All selfishness...Time for a gin, I think."

What Maskell most cared about was art, even more so than gin:

"Here [in Russia] was being built a society which would apply to its own workings the rules of order and harmony by which art works; a society in which the artist would no longer be dilettante or romantic rebel, pariah or parasite; a society whose art would be more deeply rooted in ordinary life than since medieval times. What a prospect, for a sensibility as hungry for certainties as mine was!"

Eventually, Maskell starts to see himself as an actor, a character in a play (if not a novel). His friends are an ensemble, to whom he is more loyal than his country or even his ostensible cause.

Together they indulge in "some glorious transgressive moments."

Part II ("We'll Have Some Fun with this Courier Lark, Won't We?")

I phoned Maskell when I arrived in London. I anticipated that he might be reluctant to see me, but it was clear that the Judge had already written or spoken to him, and he greeted me enthusiastically, as he did when I arrived at the door of his apartment a week later.

I handed him the letter of introduction and he smiled after he read it.

His apartment was sparse, if elegantly furnished. He led me into the lounge room, where a gas heater was radiating warmth in the fireplace.

We sat opposite each other in comfortable chairs.

He asked me about my taste in art. When it appeared that it was more modern and modernist than his, he simply remarked, "Never mind." He didn't ask me about my relationship with the Judge. He seemed to know enough from the letter or their previous communications.

After that, conversation flowed easily, without either of us overtly directing it. After an hour or so, he looked at his watch and asked whether I'd like a cup of tea, or was it too early for a gin and tonic? The latter had become my favourite summer drink, and I eagerly accepted, despite the time of year in the northern hemisphere.

As was my habit, I drank the G&T fairly quickly, then noticed that Maskell had too. Without being asked, he took my empty glass and filled both of our glasses at the bar.



Nicolas Poussin - "Eliezer And Rebecca At The Well"

Part III ("The Fizz and Swirl of the Queer Life")

Though I was familiar with his past according to the newspaper accounts in the last couple of years, I didn't raise it, not wanting to undo the rapport we seemed to have built.

Instead, Maskell finally asked me into his study, because he wanted to "show me something".

When we entered, I noticed a desk with an old typewriter. Against the opposite wall was a couch. Above the desk was a painting that I could imagine Maskell scrutinising from the comfort of the couch opposite it.

He took a position at the far end of the couch and patted the cushion next to him. "Here," he suggested. "Come and share the view with me."

The painting was a work by his obsession, Nicolas Poussin. It was the one he wanted the Judge to have. "The Death of Seneca" (in truth, "Eliezer And Rebecca At The Well"). I observed it in silence. Perhaps it was expected of me that I would make some kind of assessment. However, I suspect that Maskell realised that my opinions would be both uninformed and impressionistic. Nevertheless, by the end of our meeting, it would be understood that I was to take it with me.

Maskell continued to talk of his teaching days at the Institute, then placed his hand on my inner thigh. It came as a surprise, even though it shouldn't have, given what I knew about his sexuality. I noticed that, for some reason, I had an erection. Was I reacting to some sense of imminent danger? Had he discovered or prompted some kind of repressed tendency?

It was then, dear reader, that he undressed me, and used me as he would his catamite.

Afterwards, he removed the picture from its hanger, wrapped it in brown paper and plastic, and handed it to me.

We shook hands, then as I turned to go, I noticed his smile again. There was a sense of accomplishment in it. He was coming to the end of his journey, while mine had just begun.

UPDATE 8/22/22 ... I have stopped reading this book again (for the last time) ... the story is impenetrable and even Banville's sparkling writing can't overcome the lack of a plot

***

It seems like I have been reading this forever. The story is confusing, but the writing is glorious. Reading Banville is like reading a text book for writers. But you have to read slowly, savoring the word choices and images. It's best to read on kindle, with dictionary at hand.

A roman à clef of the Cambridge Five spy ring although in the book it reads more like a Cambridge Seven or Eight.
If you wanted to, you could work out all of the real life characters and events in relation to the novel. As far as I wanted to go into this it held up. I suspect there is more scuttlebutt and rumoured treason at the heart of the British establishment that is explored but quite frankly I did not want to go into it.

One has to consider why Banville would write such a book. By 1997 this saga was old news. There had been plays and teledramas at least 10 years before about this scandal. There is more going on in this book than a mere fictionalised retelling of old news.

The story is told through the eyes of Blunt/Maskell. By the end of the book although we realise that he is a brilliant aesthete , he is also dispicable. Not because he "betrayed" his county" but rather it is his vague but febrile anti-fascism and an innate overbearing arrogance that came from a life of privilege in the belly of the British establishment that makes him a deluded grotesque.

He is one with the prejudices of his class and era. The deplorable racism and in particular antisemitism is stomach churning. The shallowness of his relationships to any human is breathtaking. He walks into a room and immediately judges people, especially women, by what they are wearing and their curtains and couch. As a Gay man he enthusiastically pursues casual, gratuitous sex but he is also an appalling homophobe.

And he is protected. He is Untouchable. The establishment decides to make a deal with him and let him keep his position and honours as long as he goes along with polite interrogation. This all falls apart, when what is common knowledge in the spy agencies, becomes public.

I am no Julian Assange fanboy but it is notable the way a nobody, someone with no ties to the British Establishment was imprisoned for 7 years not for spying mind you, but for exposing embarrassing truths. Blunt was simply stripped of his title. It was all too embarrassing to admit that the cousin to the then Queen mother was a traitor.

A well written book about a repellant man that flourished in a rotten society. I cannot say I liked the book.

3.5

Self-reflection, as my dad recently commented to me, is a powerful character activator. This fictional memoir is 367 pages of reflection — Maskell looks back on his whole life. Somehow, this process yields absolutely nothing. It is highly self-conscious self-reflection, so excessive that it becomes about the act of reflection, rather than actually discovering something about yourself. The worst kind of postmodern: self-reflexive, instead of self-reflective. I was at first enthralled with the characters and the poetic prose, but by the time I finished, that veneer of style chipped away to reveal a noxious worldview and an empty artistic philosophy.

The book’s emptiness is best seen in its characters. In the whole cast, Victor himself is the only character who ever becomes three-dimensional. The flatness problem might have something to do with the type of person art critic Victor is: an aesthete, he sees others as impressions instead of people. This does not, however, get the author off the hook. The manner in which a first-person narrator describes other characters is only half of what forms that character. The other half is the action they take in the story. Alas, the characters in this book hardly take any.

Each character is composed with a habitual gesture, a linguistic quirk, and a connotative name. Does this really constitute a person? The best example is Querell, the delightfully (at first) disgusting stand-in for Graham Greene. Querell is a lecherous, Catholic, chain-smoking writer and intelligence officer of the Oxbridge boys’ club variety. Maskell writes: “I used to chuckle over newspaper photographs of him hobnobbing with the Pope, since I knew that the lips with which he kissed the papal ring had most likely been between some woman’s thighs a half-hour previously.” Querell is identified by his gestures: he always has one hand in his pocket, and smokes “without cease, apparently the same, everlasting cigarette, for I never seemed able to catch him in the act of lighting up.” Indeed Maskell — who is “never able to catch him in the act” — never understands this man in any depth.

This set of details is a vivid, even amusing set of lines to draw a caricature. And that’s a funny character for a set piece — an emblematic figure, like Lt. Kilgore’s fifteen minutes in Apocalypse Now. It’s a funny caricature, but it’s not a human being. Yet the whole book is made up of these figurants. Perhaps worst of them all is Maskell’s meaningless wife, “Baby,” who exists only as a mediator for his desire for her brother, and whose internal life he (characteristically) makes no effort to explore. Characters are never fleshed out beyond this amusing surface, and they never take any action in the plot, either.

The book isn’t plot-driven, and it isn’t character driven either; it’s purely aesthetic. It’s form without content. In an essay on the book, critic Allan Hepburn (Intrigue: Espionage and Culture) writes: “Maskell spies for Russia, not because he believes Stalinist Russia is morally or politically superior, but because the formalities of treachery beguile him. Form matters, not content.” The same could be said of the book: rife with technically beautiful descriptions of places and people, it lacks any content about human values or relationships.

I can recognize the value of Victor Maskell as a character, as a surfacey person who prizes form over content. I take issue with the way the book itself embraces this value system — in its inactive characters and its endless, formless self-reflection which, finally, yields no substance. I object to this surface-level human engagement. I object to the loaded dialogue whose meaning is never parsed. I object to the pessimistic aphorisms Maskell derives from each interaction. You can’t reduce people down like this, to a gesture, a hand in a pocket, and then run them through the mouse maze and point to their interactions as demonstrative of fundamental human truths. You didn’t create any real human beings, so your results have no human substance.

The novel is the memoir of Victor Maskell, scion of the estate of Carrickdrum in Northern Ireland, an Art Historian, expert on Poussin; and a spy for the USSR since his time at Cambridge in the 1930s. His journal is written down as if for Miss Serena Vandeleur, a journalist who comes to him after his exposure to the press long, long after the Security Services had become aware of his treacherous activities. He thus bears a more than superficial resemblance to Anthony Blunt but doubtless the parallels are not entirely exact.

The attention here is incidental but Banville has previously had painting and painters as a subject - as in The Sea, Athena, The Book of Evidence and Ghosts. The focus here (obviously drawn from Blunt's non-espionage career) is Poussin, specifically Maskell's prized possession, The Death of Seneca, but, in keeping with the book's theme of duplicity and subterfuge, there is a suggestion that the work is not genuine, or at least not by Poussin.

The novel is wonderfully written. Each sentence is in perfect balance; a work of art in itself, the text studded with unusual observations, “The silence that fell, or rather rose – for silence rises, surely?” or comments, “He was genuinely curious about people – the sure mark of the second-rate novelist,” and the occasional barb, “Trying for the common touch .. and failing ridiculously.” The literary allusions include a reference to Odysseus’s men drinking sea-dark wine.

There are subtle inferences to the insights of a spy, “He made the mistake of thinking that the way to be convincing is to put on a false front,” and the regrets of the trade, “It is odd, how the small dishonesties are the ones that snag in the silk of the mind,” and later, “It is the minor treacheries that weigh most heavily on the heart.” On encountering a tramp with a dog inside his coat Maskell tells us, "(I was) ashamed that I felt more sorrow for the dog than I did for the man. What a thing it is, the human heart."

Maskell claims almost from the outset to have been disenchanted with the USSR, a feeling to which his visit there in the 30s only contributed, and that his controllers consistently misunderstood England (as he puts it.) “Much of my time and energy .. was spent trying to teach Moscow to distinguish between form and content in English life.” Despite his betrayals he says, “I was nothing less than an old-fashioned patriot.” In mitigation he asks, “who could have remained inactive in this ferocious century?” and avers, "We should have had no mercy, no qualms. We would have brought down the whole world."

He receives the Order of the Red Banner (his medal glimpsed only once by him before being hidden away by his handler) for contributing to the Soviet victory at Kursk by transferring details, relayed from Bletchley, of a new German tank design. How much such information really affected that battle is of course debatable.

Some of the dialogue is representative of the times in which the book is set, “Mind if I turn off this nigger racket?” and "'What's the matter with the dago, sir?'" being cases in point.

One of Maskell’s defining features is his homosexuality (though he came to it late, after marriage to one of his University friends.) Of a lover of his he tells us, "Patrick had all the best qualities of a wife, and was blessedly lacking in two of the worst: he was neither female, nor fertile,” and further comments “(I ask myself..... if women fully realise how deeply, viscerally, sorrowfully, men hate them.)" He is of the opinion that in the fifties "to be queer was very bliss.... the last great age of queerdom." The "young hotheads" of the narrator's present day, "do not seem to appreciate, or at least seem to wish to deny, the aphrodisiac properties of secrecy and fear."

Part of his early protection from wider exposure was that he was sent by the King to Bavaria after the war to retrieve some potentially compromising papers. A distant relation, he refers sardonically to the Queen as Mrs W.

He has a jaundiced view of humanity and at one point he describes the American system as “itself, so demanding, so merciless, undeluded as to the fundamental murderousness and venality of humankind and at the same time grimly, unflaggingly optimistic.”

His observation about his work on Poussin, that he was trying "to pull together into a unity all the disparate strands of character and inspiration and achievement that make up this singular being," might be a description of the novel itself. In The Untouchable Banville has laid out for us a life in just such terms.

It is all a fascinating examination of the existence of a spy. As he ponders who it was who unmasked him - possibly twice - Maskell begins to question everything about his life but asides such as, "My memory is not as good as it's supposed to be. I may have misrecalled everything, got all the details wrong," and, "As to this - what? this memoir? this fictional memoir?" point to the unreliability of his account.

Brilliant stuff.

Victor Maskell is an art obsessive so life is all about the aesthetic - how he looks to the outside world - and fun. He doesn't commit to anything fully, calling himself a Stoic. In fact, his lack of action is often driven by self-interest. As the book is his autobiography, written to preserve his memory, it also reflects his life. We never delve too deep into events or emotions. He keeps up his mask until the end. As a reader, this causes problems. The writer intends to keep the reader at arm's length, and in doing so, leaves little to engage with. I can appreciate this in terms of writing skill - it is very well-written and well-structured - but there is not much to get really interested in.

So, if you read more to enjoy good writing, I would still recommend it - Banville is excellent - however, if you want something with a story then it is one to avoid.

3.5/5 Estrellas.
Ejercicio literario impresionante. Largo y en determinados momentos tedioso monólogo, que hace que engancharse a la lectura requiera una considerable dosis de motivación.

El libro se plantea como las memorias de uno de los 5 topos que la Unión Soviética reclutó entre los Universitarios de la Universidad de Cambridge durante los años 30, Antonhy Blunt, aunque en el libro aparece con otro nombre. Estos 5 hombres, pertenecientes a las élites británicas, se infiltraron durante años en los servicios secretos, el Foreing Office e instituciones próximas a la Corona, de tal forma que su desenmascaramiento o deserción durante la segunda mitad del siglo XX, convulsionaron hasta sus cimientos a la sociedad británica.

Espectacular ejercicio introspectivo del personaje, desde sus raíces en la clase media-alta de provincias (Belfast), sus estudios en Cambridge, sus coqueteos con los movimientos antifascistas que lo llevan a ser captado por los Servicios secretos soviéticos, su participación en la Segunda Guerra Mundial como agente de los servicios secretos británicos, el doble juego entre unos y otros que nos envuelve, que nos confunde durante todo el libro, que ni él mismo consigue explicarse.

Las múltiples facetas del personaje se entrecruzan durante toda la novela llevándonos a una vorágine que desemboca en su caída en desgracia, cuando se hace público su papel de agente infiltrado al servicio de la URSS: su faceta de vividor, padre de familia y luego homosexual tardío, de experto en arte, de profesor, marxista.........
¿Espía doble manipulador o pobre hombre manipulado por otros para constituir la pantalla tras la que se ocultan los personajes verdaderamente importantes de la trama?
¿Porqué personajes cultos y muy inteligentes, se pusieron al servicio de la Unión Soviética, cuando de sobra sabían la realidad que allí se cocía? ¿Odio al fascismo encarnado por Hitler, odio al capitalismo americano, odio al clasismo inglés en el que ellos mismos estaban cómodamente instalados, idealismo socialista, ganas de aventuras, inconsciencia? Estas y muchas otras incógnitas son planteadas por el personaje, ninguna de ellas satisfactoriamente resuelta, quizá porque no tienen explicación. Interrogantes interesantes también para el lector, que puesto en la piel del personaje, ya acabado y condenado, se plantea qué hubiera hecho él en muchas de estas situaciones.

No se trata de una lectura fácil, pero es recomendable para sumergirnos en uno de los aspectos más importantes de la Guerra Fría: El juego de espías entre las potencias occidentales y el bloque del este.

An Irishman, Victor, has reached a pinnacle of his profession, working the the Royal Household of Windsor, a prime custodian and recorder of His Majesty's art collection. His friends are the cream of British schooling, prime young men on their way up, polished and groomed for service. Victor has secrets, as do many in his elite social class. He has married well, too, into a rich Jewish family, tied by strange attractions. He is also a homosexual, and even more to hide in this era, during the pre/post WWII years, he is also a Soviet spy. The tale echoes the life of the scandalous Anthony Blunt, double agent, art historian living what seemed a charmed life. Banville is a magnificent writer, and delights with prose and the razor edge tease of this story. A highly enjoyable book, a seesaw of emotions, rampant and raw with human folly.

As readers we have all experienced or come across books that either make a siren call to us, which we can’t ignore, or speak to us in a way that makes us drown within its pages, or even sing to us, a beautiful melody that soothes our spirit and enthralls us in a way nothing else does. This book had a combination of all those whilst also painting vivid pictures that would definitely give artists around the world a run for their money. Honestly, I am not exaggerating when I say this, as it was my own personal experience.

The Untouchable by John Banville is a Roman à clef that is written from the point of view of Victor Maskell, an exemplary art historian, a Queen’s man, a double agent and a homosexual, whose character is loosely based on Anthony Blunt, a Cambridge spy. Narrated by Maskell, this book is part memoir and part confession, taking us to that period in England where the educated often amused themselves with espionage and the erudite were often vociferous supporters of Marxism, where to drink and debate passionately on all topics was considered the fashion, where homosexuality was considered a crime and worse a thing of shame. Those were the days when the youth rebelled at everything and experienced a certain amusement from it, for all their rebellions were not really because they believed in the cause but was more because it amused them. Everything of that period amused them, at least that’s what one gets from reading this book. Be it political affiliation, sexual orientation, criminal dealings, cheating, betrayal, love, friendship, just about everything was a matter of amusement and thrown about to suit their present needs, changed to fit their goals and ambitions, never giving thought to the other. We can call it a callous world, cynical and selfish times, we can even go further and look at those times with the disdain that is prevalent today but what we can’t do is to ignore it. Oh no, it is a world and time that we can never ignore, it is a time and world that is exciting even to those who disdain it, it is a time that may have perhaps been the originator of the rebel movement, an exciting time when the world was fraught with war and history that one has to acknowledge it and maybe salute those who lived in those perilous times and survived.

The book begins with Maskell, a former British spy, being uncovered as a double agent working for Russia during WWII. Facing disgrace for his double role as well as for his sexual orientation, Maskell is going through intense criticism from the community, which is both angry and disgusted with the lies, and which has resulted in the taking away of his Knighthood and also his removal from the position of Director. Under these circumstances, it is obvious that Maskell is beseeched by the press for an illumination on his exact role. While he mostly remains silent, he does get intrigued by a young woman who comes across to him as not belonging to this sect. Being so intrigued, he does accept her request for a private meeting, where he learns that she wants to write a book on him. What then began as an amusing game of cat and mouse between the young lady and Maskell, where Maskell believes that he is simply stringing her along, turns into a confession of sorts, written by him as a memoir, deeply affected by his own mortality.

Maskell, perhaps feeling a need to cleanse his soul, or maybe with a need to shock the young lady, or even for reasons that could be as simple as being bored of all the secrecy and limitations, gives forth an account that is as thrilling as any book on espionage written by the masters of that genre. Banville brings alive those times in Cambridge, where there was no thought or concern about right or wrong but life was all about living on the edge and indulging in the pleasures as if there was no tomorrow.

While the book is based on the story of the real life Cambridge Spies, it is a fictional account, where Banville takes the advantage of bringing in various tropes to suit the mood and create a flavor that is bursting with uniqueness whilst also being familiar. With Maskell’s Irish roots, Rothstein and Nick’s Jewish ones, Boy’s boisterous nature and open admission of homosexuality, Banville covers a wide range of subjects, prejudices, ideologies and a whole lot of history in a manner that is exciting, thrilling and vivid.

The beauty of this book lies not in the subject or the tale, although it does play an important role; but in its language. Banville brings to life the characters, their individual and collective nature; the often grimy and often sordid nature of the times; the beauty of the surroundings, even when it is bleak and grim; the duplicity of espionage, the threats, the fears and the excitement; and finally the subject of sexual orientation, where disease and coming out were only fears that lurked below the surface. Banville brings to life the debauchery, the heartless and often cruel relationships that were maintained, and the ennui that most inhabitants felt, which led to dangerous pastimes. Using dark humour as a tool, Banville creates a story of espionage that throws light on everything from moral complexities in society to individual cynicism, attitudes and vanity, giving the reader a few laugh out loud moments whilst also making them experience a whole host of other emotions. What makes this even more special is the fact that nowhere does the pace flag or the story less suspenseful, although I have to say that I did guess correctly in the beginning but was kept on my proverbial toes by giving way to constant doubts, making it in short, a wonderful suspense thriller.

Characters are the main crux of this story, where you can actually say that this narration is character driven as opposed to being plot driven. When a lot depends on the characters, it is often difficult to maintain consistent growth or deterioration of the various characters that play a part in the story. Here Banville shows his mastery by ensuring that every character, even the smallest of them, is developed beautifully. While all the characters are seen through the eyes of the narrator, Maskell, they are so vivid in their description and portrayal that they actually come alive. I can safely say that I lived this book instead of merely reading it. Boy, Nick, Leo, Maskell, Vivienne, Querrel, Serena, Danny and the myriad others weren’t just names that I read but people I came to know and either liked or disliked, depending on their actions or words. You laugh with them, you feel their pain, you get angry and you feel proud; these characters weren’t mere characters to me but my friends and my enemies, such was their portrayal. The best part of the characters was that most of them were depictions of real life people, given that this fictional tale had a founding in reality. Trying to match the fictional with the real was a fun game that I had going while reading this book, making it a fun read.

As with the broad outline of the story, the author has also stayed true to the various historical references that are given, which again added a special flavor. A book which doesn’t limit its scope to itself but actually makes you want to read more and learn more is a good book in my mind, which this did, making it a real pleasure to read. Given that this book has adventure, suspense, history and covers a wide range of topics, I don’t think I need to say anything more but to say that give this one a try and you might be surprised at what you find.

Hard to maintain internal monologue for the length of a book, but it works in Banville's masterful hands.

Ambitious saga chronicling the disaffected, alienated generation coming of age in the WWI thirties (upper-class, well-educated, with no 'anchor') and their often-successful wooing by already-converted dons in their respective ivied universities such as Cambridge, Eton, Oxford. LeCarre' has already covered this ground somewhat, but this book is a 'life' of such a young man, played into his seventies and brutally illustrating the cost/benefits balance sheet of an existence predicated upon duplicity--to others and to oneself.
I am an easy mark for the the intelligence that is evident behind the writing, the slow (for the most part) pacing, the exquisite character development and the attention to detail. I could do without the graphic descriptions of his conversion, the character might use the term 'awakening,' to his homosexuality, and would make this same criticism of Murakami in 'Norwegian Wood', but maybe it is the expectation of the times.
Not a book for everyone, certainly not the suspense/thriller crowd. More a book, as I envision it, to be enjoyed while safely ensconced in a comfortable recliner with a cup of tea at hand, maybe an old dog at your feet, and the the steady drip of a gray Spring evening outside your window. (Forgot the throw rug across your legs.)
If this review doesn't send you screaming for the exits, then you may be an appreciative audience--and this book deserves an appreciative audience.

I am more than halfway through and have pretty much lost interest as the narrator becomes more unlikeable, the prose less interesting, and the plot more plot-like. Do I plod through to the end?

.......


I've given up. I liked the first 3rd of it very much. I liked it much less by midpoint and beyond...