A beautifully handled, sarcastic, changeable, moving 1st person voice, in the character of Victor Maskell, Russian/British double agent and art historian. John Banville is brilliant in his creation of this prickly character, whom I love in spite of, and maybe because of, his prickliness and undecorated honesty. Brilliant, too, the way Maskell's homosexuality meshes with, resonates with, his spying -- both illicit activities in England in the 1920s and 30s (and into the "modern" era. . . ). The story sags in the middle, and could have used some serious editing, yet the opening and closing thirds are echt Banville, glorious, absorbing.

Lēns, drīzāk sabiedrību, nekā spiegus raksturojošs spiegu stāsts.
Paralēli klausos podkāstu par pasaules kariem no britu perspektīvas un jā, ir pilnīgi skaidrs, ka britiem eksistē tikai viņu Britānija (arī īriem un skotiem - viņu vēsture ir viņu salas un viņu cilvēki), visi pārējie ir tāds vēsturiskais fons tikai. Mazākām tautām tādā ziņā ir jāņem vērā arī citi spēlētāji, tādējādi tie stāsti un vēsture izdodas tādi krāsaināki.
Kā grāmata šis lasāmais bija labs, bet man kā latvietei uzsita asinis, marksisti un spiegi, bļin, ko neteiksi.

"Metamorphosis is a painful process" for Victor, an art expert and ambitious man who turns to the life of a spy. In the end, his ambitions ruin him and his friends betray him. His journey of exploration begins late: when he has been ousted in public, deserted, and he tries to make sense of his life through his memoirs:

n  

I imagine the exquisite agony of the caterpillar turning itself into a butterfly, pushing out eye-stalks, pounding its fat-cells into iridescent wing-dust, at last cracking the mother-of-pearl sheath and staggering upright on sticky, hair's-breadth legs, drunken, gasping, dazed by the light.

n

What makes a person want to live a disguised life that the truth is elusive even to himself? This seems to be the exploration for both character and reader, a question never really answered and one that cannot be fully explained. What is both appealing and shocking is to see Victor, at one stage of his life, try to find his truth, even at the detriment of those he love. This is a grim story about betrayal and trust, booze and love, sexuality and personal evolution, and of course, spies.

The older Victor looks retrospectively at his life with remarkable calm and wisdom for someone who is incredibly turmoiled and at a cross-road; his present-tense narration is one I wanted to follow, one I wish had more grounding in the narrative:

n  

Great hot waves of remembrance wash through me, bringing images and sensations I would have thought I had entirely forgotten or successfully extirpated, yet so sharp and vivid are they that I falter in my tracks with an inward gasp, assailed by a sort of rapturous sorrow.

n

This has been a surprising fourth John Banville read for me. The novel is layered in both narrative perspective and style that sometimes the switch in styles can be offsetting, as if one is being thrown into another book. Although it explored similar nuances of identity, self, and rumination (like most of his novels), this one had more of an austere texture. So far Shroud has been my favorite.

I liked the first part of this book more than the latter half. There is an odd sense of oh-do-let’s-be-done-with-this in the back half of this book, although there are still some great passages in the latter half.

What I enjoyed most in this book was the richness of Banville’s language. The other main point for me was the inversion of the typical espionage story. One rarely gets the traitor as protagonist, and in this case such an unpalatable character. It was refreshing, in a way.

This novel is many things - it is a masterpiece of ventriloquism, a discourse on art history, a historical account of the debauchery of the upper classes in wartime London, a reflection on sexuality, trust and, ultimately, loyalty and betrayal. And bits of it are very funny. John Banville's perfect prose is ideally suited to his detached and self-regarding main character and the other unforgettable characters spring off the pages. A novel to treasure.

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.

Absolutely excellent read, one of the best pieces of literature I’ve read in some time. Individualism, time, sexuality, art, war, relationship dynamics, all rolled into one narrative, with a very Gatsby-an energy throughout. Evoked feelings I haven’t experienced since reading Dostoyevsky for the first time. Couldn’t recommend more.

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.

I've been spending the last month reading novels written by John Banville. It's fun with authors that have multiple works to stick with them one after another for a while to glimpse their depth and soak their craft. If at all possible the author should be wise and a good artist so that you see a little better where you are and maybe, if you are so inclined, refine your own attempts at expression through the absorption of their rhythms, their vocabulary. I started off with The Sea and then read The Book of Evidence and then this last one The Untouchable. Banville has a few more books out there which makes my heart glad. I'll say this, a certain inner fortitude for Banville's work is needed. The portrayal of his characters is so accurate, so fully human, that it hurts getting to know them, living in their minds, choking in their own empty recognizable spaces. Take Victor, the main character of The Untouchables. A British spy working for Russia during a period before and following World War II. Forget all you've read about spies. Victor is loyal to Britain and to principles that started out some noble road and then . . . well, it got complicated. The thing about presenting complex characters when it is well done is that the reader sees the character's soul as through a prism where reflections of good and bad, and ugly and very ugly are seen all at once in an image that breaks the whole and completes it at the same time. Some characters you'd like to grab by their ears and shake into some kind of boring simplicity, a steady humanity. Characters who have layers upon layers of pretension, of personalities they carefully present to the outside world, like Banville's main characters, are sometimes hard to like. That's not to say that we don't empathize. We don't have to like a character to empathize, to understand, to recoil in self-reflection. Fortunately, Banville's characters, including Victor, are able at some point to see the layers of hypocrisy and are as ashamed of their shameful acts, as you are for them, even as they persist. And isn't that the way it is with us, that we know our darkness even as we grab at light, here or there.

In the end, I found the book chilling in its portrayal of a man without authentic emotional ties. He is alienated from his children. Apparent friends have betrayed him. He doesn't even seem particularly tied to the politics that have supposedly driven him into his life as a double-agent.

This is a terrific reimagining of the life of Anthony Blunt, but although many of the historical events are shared, much of Victor Maskell's life and character is clearly fictional. I found it a bit difficult to get started, but once Maskell's mixture of stylish erudition, humour and ruthlessness became familiar, I found it enjoyable and entertaining - one of Banville's best creations.

John Banville is a fascinating writer. This is my second try at his novels, and there seems to be quite a pattern. The writing is gorgeous, the plot interesting and gratifyingly complex, and all of the characters utterly and profoundly unsympathetic. I get the sense that the author feels a bit like it would be giving in to cheap standards to give his principle character any redeemable personality traits.

Victor Maskell, the Cambridge spy around which the story revolves, is selfish and vain almost beyond the reckoning of it. Frankly, I’m not terribly bothered about the betraying his country thing - treason is such an odd and outmoded concept, I can’t really get my head around it. Does a person really owe loyalty to a country just because he happens to be born there? Probably not, really. However, I have a very good grasp on the idea of what it is to be a great big lying liar, and that’s where Victor loses my sympathy. What I disliked even more was that, at heart, Victor was a lazy nihilist. He didn’t really care two straws about the proletariat and all that communist nonsense; he thought Soviet Russia was a failure; he had no ideological passion that would in part excuse his treachery. He just wanted to look cool like someone in a spy movie. And it was the same with his colorful and depressingly soulless personal life. He abandons his wife and children without regret or apparent discomfort about what it said about him as a person in favor of chasing cheap thrills in the most stunningly tawdry settings. Even later, instead of settling down with his sort-of life partner, he prefers to maintain a solid shield of meaninglessness around himself.

The book succeeds on three main levels for me. First, as I mentioned, Banville can make language do things that few other writers can. It’s sharp and precise while being majestic and complicated. I had my dictionary app open half the time I was reading, and good for him for not being afraid of scaring me with arcane, delicious words. Secondly, even though I hated Victor and all of the rest of them, they were terribly convincing. Victor’s conceit, his feeling of having been betrayed by his friends, is palpable. Nevermind he’s a terrible person whose spent a lifetime betraying anyone and everyone just for the heck of it. He feel this wrong so fiercely that Banville makes you actually feel a little sorry for him in a pathetic sort of way. Lastly, I thought the ending was phenomenal. Banville wouldn’t give me characters with a soul, but he gave me a story with all the strings neatly, appropriately, and satisfyingly tied up. There was a very nice completeness to the story that is sometimes lacking in literary stuff where the writing and not the plotting take the main billing.

In summary: this was an interesting read that demonstrates some masterful writing. It was a little tough to get the swing of initially, though, and it definitely took a little work. Not a beach read, but worth doing if it’s your sort of thing. The three stars are mostly because it made me feel bad about being a human being, and not due to its technical merit.