Freddie Montgomery is unmistakably guilty - he stole and killed. The confession he writes, while in jail and awaiting trial, may be unreliable, but then, I don’t think it is about reliability. You could see it as a confession of a psychopath, or as a story about a man whose life is missing some essential element. But it has depth, and self-reflection. It has something that gripped me, like no other story that I read recently. Not because Freddie is likable, because believe me - he is not, but because his story it is so dense with evidence - nothing he says is unnecessary, everything matters and every sentence carries so much meaning… .

He killed because he could, because there was nothing stopping him. The life that lead to this apotheosis was one rather without rules, he is portraying himself as a man with no virtuous and in a way without moral restraint. He glides through life not really engaging in anything, or with anyone. Nothing has consequences, and when it comes to the point of no return, the girl that he kills and the act itself, doesn’t appear real enough, to stop him from committing the murder. Real things hurt, and not much did hurt in his life until that point. Then there comes a shock, and guilt, and the stain of blood that just like lady Macbeth's can’t be wash of his hands. And it is not until then, that he in a way becomes wholly human, and while not able to seek forgiveness since his act was unforgivable, he must now see his victim and imagine her back into existence again.

It is an excellent and thought-provoking story, written in such a fluent prose and I would like to recommend it to all of you, analytic and psychologically inclined souls out there - who like to see under the surface or things, and search for a reason and meaning. For those of you, I am sure, “The book of evidence” will be an unforgettable treat.

Fourth attempt, fourth time abandoning The Book of Evidence.

I made it a little farther this time, as I do each time I take a crack at it, but I've still not reached one hundred pages, and I can't see myself ever picking this book up again. But it's John Banville, and I am an Irish Lit guy, so I feel like something is wrong with me; I can't read his books.

But there's definitely something wrong with this book that isn't about me. John Banville doesn't care about his protagonist, Freddie Montgomery. When one writes a first person narrative and one doesn't care for one's narrator, the book can be excruciating to read. At least it is so for me. And I've to wonder why Banville bothered.

Still, maybe there is something to be said for Banville's achievement. He wrote a book about someone he doesn't care for, and he wrote it well. I can't deny that. His prose is beautiful and occassionally brilliant. But I can't imagine writing a book about a character I don't care about. I can write a book about someone I dislike or even loathe, but I have to care about them even so. Banville seems to have written about a character, however, that he both disdains and doesn't care for. It is something I can't do, and it is also something that I can't read because Banville's attitude becomes my attitude, and I can't carry on reading without caring about the character(s) I am asked to spend time with.

So do I try The Book of Evidence again sometime, when I think I am in the mood for some uncaring misanthropy? Do I try The Sea, even though it won the Booker Prize and probably sucks? Or do I just stop trying to appreciate Banville? Can't decide right now. Help me out gentle readers. Is there a Banville you think I may like?

4.5 stars. A beautifully written story about the prison testimony of Freddie Montgomery who killed a maid trying to stop him stealing a painting. Set in Ireland. Freddie writes about his mother, his wife and his friends/associates. A great character study. A book to reread.

This felt like an Irish John Updike. Freddie Montgomery is arguably worse than Rabbit; but the time period is the same and the language use and description was similar. Also reminded me a bit of McEwan's despicable main character in Solar.

Unfortunately, it was a bit repetitive; I am starting to feel rather repetitive myself, ever since reading Didion my main complaint is that everything is repetitive. Is this an example of life imitating art or just that through art I have finally noticed the repetitiveness of everything?

Anyway, Banville has a few themes and he is not afraid to stroke them repetitively throughout. Most frequently, he addresses the criminal's wish for self-efficacy and fame (and the psychological desire for attention and notice that is rewarded upon arrest and imprisonment): "I confess I had hopelessly romantic expectations of how things would be in here. Somehow I pictured myself a sort of celebrity, kept apart from the other prisoners in a special wing, where I would receive parties of grave, important people and hold forth to them about the great issues of the day, impressing the men and charming the ladies." He is so relieved as to be almost glorious in his arrest: "Yes, to be found out, to be suddenly pounced upon, beaten, stripped, and set before the howling multitude, that was my deepest, most ardent desire." and then in the capture: "From now on I would be watched over, I would be tended and fed and listened to, like a big, dangerous babe."

He also loves to discuss the lack of intention in our actions. Freddie is convinced that he set out without purpose and that simple random coincidences led to his criminal behavior. This is, of course, absurdly ridiculous and yet 100% true. Always, in life, we can stop our actions or change course. However, most frequently it is easier to succumb to inertia and just follow along paths which previous actions have blazed. I really liked some of Banville's turn of phrase on this point: "[the question] assumes that actions are determined by volition, deliberate thought, a careful weighing-up of facts, all that puppet-show twitching which passes for consciousness. I was living like that because I was living like that, there is no other answer. When I look back, no matter how hard I try I can see no clear break between one phase and another." Later he again argues, "There is no moment in this process of which I can confidently say, there, that is when I decided she should die. Decided? I do not think it was a matter of deciding. I do not think it was a matter of thinking, even."

A third theme is the inhumanity of humans. Like all nasty (self serving, self aware, and malicious) characters, Freddie is able to analyze his own actions and frequently describes himself as something less than human. He pardons himself with the excuse that he is really two beasts, the one under control and then the other under the surface. Freddie declares: "To do the worst thing, the very worst thing, that's the way to be free. I would never again need to pretend to myself to be what I was not."

He is also: "Never wholly anywhere, never with anyone, either, that was me, always. Even as a child I seemed to myself a traveller who had been delayed in the middle of an urgent journey. Life was an unconscionable wait, walking up and down the platform, watching for the train." I love this description because it captures one of my favorite life issues (gotta figure out how to live in the moment to be happy), while simultaneously giving the example of this extremely dissatisfied being who cannot ever live in the moment.

One complaint I have is that the narrator was not completely honest. He describes himself in the opening paragraph (which is well crafted and definitely grabs the reader's attention) as a cannibal: "the girl-eater, svelte and dangerous, padding to and fro in my cage". I was actually (surprisingly) sort of disappointed when it turned out that he just walked away from Josie while she was still alive. Certainly, leaving her to die on her own is horrid; but I read the whole book under the impression that Freddie would really lose it in the end and anticipated a gory scene that just didn't occur.

Overall it was an interesting read with some worthwhile moments.

CRITIQUE:

Testimony

From the beginning, I thought this novel was going to mimic the design of Vladimir Nabokov's n  "Lolita".n (1)

It purports to be a book of evidence or testimony by Freddie Montgomery, who has been accused of both theft and murder.

His barrister would have preferred that he not give any evidence or statements to the police or the court. However, Freddie fails to heed his counsel's advice. Having never been in prison before, he has no inkling what life imprisonment will be like, and thus doesn't appear to fear the prospect.

Freddie writes his account while he is being held in custody on remand, pending his trial (which, at the time of the testimony, has not occurred yet).

He addresses his testimony, variously, to My Lord (the judge) and the members of the jury. As in the case of "Lolita", this places us, the readers, in the guise of either the judge or a jury member. We must assess the veracity of the testimony.

Many readers believe that Humbert Humbert was an unreliable narrator. I never sympathised with this point of view. I felt (and still feel) that many readers apply this term to somebody, a narrator, with whom they disagree, on any basis. There has to be some reason to disbelieve a narrator, other than the reader's preconceived notions about the subject matter about which they disagree. (I would suggest a physical or intellectual impairment, the influence of alcohol or drugs, or a motive to obtain a material benefit from their dishonesty or lack of candour. I mean the narrator's, not the reader's!)

"A Man With a Decent Accent"

That said, there isn't as much reason to disagree with Freddie as there might have been with Humbert. His crimes are not of a sexual nature, nor do they relate to children.

However, this isn't meant to imply that we have any reason to sympathise with Freddie. He is some type of scientist who has recently returned, married (to Daphne) and with a young son, from ten years in the United States. Like Humbert, he is well educated, and thinks and writes eloquently [still, I can't work out how he is able to write as well as John Banville, a dedicated and highly accomplished writer ;)]. He seems to be middle to upper class, and believes that -

n  
n  "A man with a decent accent can do almost anything."n  
n

To which statement, the reader can add "...and get away with it."

This composite statement is, at most, hypothetical, because Freddie doesn't seek to get away with anything, or to escape punishment, or to plead in mitigation of penalty, for what he has done. He doesn't deny what he has been accused of, he doesn't assert that he has any legitimate cause, excuse or defence that would exonerate him or reduce his life sentence.

From his counsel's point of view, he should have said and written nothing at all. Freddie's testimony is tantamount to a voluntary confession, and can only assist the prosecutor to successfully convict him. His counsel wants him to plead not guilty, so he can endeavour to get him off the charges. Freddie doesn't want to play that game.

As in the case of "Lolita", the reader has to ask, why would you make such a confession, to your own prejudice? Freddie doesn't supply us with any reason, so we are left to guess. (I maintain that Humbert's sole purpose was to express his love for Dolores, regardless of the legal consequences.) Unfortunately, by the end of Banville's novel, we have no better idea. As this quandary fascinated me in both novels, the failure to resolve it was one of the few aspects of the novel which I found wanting.


"Portrait of a Woman" (attributed to Willem Drost), one of a number of possible sources for the fictional description of the painting in the novel

Freddie's Guilt Edge

Banville circles around the quandary in the first, unnumbered chapter, and this is where I found the prose most captivating. He is a master of sentencecraft, on the same level as Javier Marias. Nowhere was his prose more exhilarating than in the first chapter where Freddie was struggling with his own quandary.

In later chapters, Banville's prose is more descriptive of the external environment, the actions and dialogue of the characters. In a way, this detail is less interesting, because we have come to believe that it isn't contentious or in dispute. It is more like a summary of agreed facts, upon which a judge or jury could make a finding of law or fact. (Of course, this point of view assumes that we find Freddie credible, which, by and large, I do [even if he is something of a scoundrel]. There seems to be enough external, objective evidence (the "stark essentials" referred to below) to convict Freddie, so why would he seek to contradict or question it, if he was prepared to plead guilty?)

Freddie's Story

The answer to this question is perhaps that this is Freddie's story, and he wants to tell it his own way. His motive is a kind of hubris.

When he reads a copy of the first draft police statement based on his interrogation by a policeman -

n
"[He]marvelled at how he had turned everything to his purpose, mis-spellings, clumsy syntax, even the atrocious typing. Such humility, such deference, such ruthless suppression of the ego for the sake of the text. He had taken my story, with all its...frills and fancy bits, and pared it down to stark essentials. [These are not my words.] It was an account of my crime I hardly recognised, and yet I believed it. He had made a murderer of me."
n

"Frills and Fancy Bits"

The police statement is primarily purposive (i.e., it's intended to be used for the exclusive purpose of criminal prosecution and criminal justice), although Freddie believes that it's constrained by its excessive, single-minded purposiveness.

His statement doesn't recognise that he is a "self-made man". It denies his self. It has taken the "I", the ego, the self, the subject, the psychological intention or motive of the subject out of his own account. It has taken the subject (and the subjective) out of his own story. It has to content itself with objective, provable facts.

The novel, which is effectively Freddie's subjective testimony, is his attempt to put himself (and his subjectivity) back into his own story, complete with "frills and fancy bits" (2). At the level of Banville's novel, this means that he has put the novel back into the story, and constructed a work of literature, albeit the entire novel is a work of fiction.

Banville's sentences are compound without being pretentious or unduly complicated. (3)

His achievement is to flesh out Freddie's story without using overtly purple prose, even if he relies on Freddie's gravitas and his air of menace, as well as his "frills and fancy bits", some of which might actually be unreliable.


FOOTNOTES:

(1) As my homage to the novel below hints, it also has much in common with the style and concerns of Albert Camus.

(2) "I was thirty-eight, a man of parts, with a wife and a son and an impressive Mediterranean tan, I carried myself with gravitas and a certain air of menace..."

(3) "I am remembering a certain moment, when Anna lifted her bruised, glistening mouth from between Daphne's legs and, glancing back at me with a complicitous, wry little smile, leaned aside so that I might see the sprawled girl's lap lying open there, intricate and innocent as a halved fruit."

[This description of a menage a trois (and, elsewhere, the suggestion that Freddie might love Anna Behrens) is almost certainly fanciful, if not wholly unreliable. If so, does one instance of unreliability taint the rest of the narrative?]

"She [Anna] drove very fast, working the controls probingly, as if she were trying to locate a pattern, a secret formula, hidden in the mesh of small, deft actions. I was impressed, even a little cowed. She was full of the impatient assurance of the rich."

"To do the worst thing, the very worst thing, that's the way to be free."


THE STRANGER (AN HOMAGE):

Mother died three days ago. Or thereabouts. Somebody, person or persons unknown, has already arranged her funeral for this coming Friday.

I didn't know about her demise or funeral until the police (a burly man and a tall, sleek woman) roused me from my sleep in my room at the Southern Star Hotel in Dublin about 11am this morning.

I hadn't had breakfast, but they insisted that I get dressed and accompany them to the station immediately. When I enquired why, they disclosed that the stable-girl/maid (I think her name is Joanne) had told them that my mother and I had had an almighty row a day or so before her death. As if that might have caused her to expire!

Joanne didn't overhear the entire conversation between us, but they knew that it concerned the fact that my mother had sold a number of valuable paintings from my parents' home to a diamond miner, art trader and conman named Helmut Behrens. He would later claim to be a friend of the family. What a parasite! My mother used to call him Binkie for some reason. It sounds like a term of sexual endearment. Maybe it's true what they say in the village - that they were having an affair. She seemed to have disgraced the family name, before ever I did.

The paintings had formed part of my father's estate, and though he had granted my mother a first option to retain them, she was aware that they had more sentimental value to me than economic value to her. "Portrait of a Woman with Gloves", in particular, had been my gift to my father on his 75th birthday only a few years before.


"Portrait of a Woman with Gloves" (Attributed to Rembrandt) [Freddie: "I have stood in front of other, perhaps greater paintings, and not been moved as I am moved by this one."]

When my mother revealed that she had sold them for what I regarded as a pittance, I was angry. (She sold "Portrait" for less than 10% of what I'd paid for it.) But I exploded when she told me that she planned to invest the proceeds in her newly acquired pony hobby (to which her similarly acquired man-friend, a trainer, had introduced her).

After exchanging a few belligerent words, I exited the lounge room through the French doors, slamming them from the outside, tearing a gauze curtain in the process.

"I did not know what I was doing, or what I would do next. I did not know myself. I had become a stranger, unpredictable and dangerous."

Unsurprisingly, I suppose, the police wanted to speak to me about the alleged murder of the Behrens family's maid, a day or two after my mother's death. When we arrived at the police station, it seemed that they regarded the murder as a crime passionel, though why they would consider me a suspect is beyond me. She was so commonplace - ordinary and uninteresting in both appearance and temperament - that I couldn't (and still can't) even remember her name. It just never registered.

As the police proceeded unimaginatively through their list of questions, it also emerged that one of the paintings that Behrens had bought from my mother had gone missing and hadn't been found yet. My view, which they didn't seem to have considered, was that Behrens had probably already on-sold it to a third party for a handsome profit, and was trying to recover its alleged value, either from me or an insurance company, if the police could pin the theft on me.

Perhaps my mother sold the paintings to Binkie as a revenge, not on me, but on my father, for his pathetic, shameful and sordid affair with that waitress at the pub, Penelope.

To be honest, the theft was the charge about which I was initially the most apprehensive. At that stage, it was the charge for which they had the most objective, reliable and persuasive evidence, even if I do say so myself, and I am no lawyer.

If they charged me, it would be a case of her word against mine. I had had no prior contact with Joanne, not having visited my mother for ten years, while I had been living and working in America. There should be no reason why Joanne might have any preconceptions about or prejudice against me.

My counsel would have to insinuate that she was some kind of slut. Whether or not there was any corroborative evidence. This shouldn't be too difficult. It's still standard practice in criminal and family law cases, though it must be done subtly. Even judges, especially the men, get a kick out of listening to the insinuations and watching the witness squirm.

My counsel would regard it as his solemn duty to destroy the case and the merit of any evidence against me. I, on the other hand, felt I could be more composed, even relaxed, as if a disinterested spectator at my own trial and tribulation. In this time of COVID lockdowns and restrictions, my deepest, most ardent desire was to be unmasked. Though not to be found guilty by judge or jury or audience. I wished to get as close to the crest of the wave as I could, without being dumped.


SOUNDTRACK:

The Cure - "Boys Don't Cry"

https://youtu.be/9GkVhgIeGJQ

This book was a neverending monologue, filled with rich descriptions which turned the attention away from the actual story. Which of course I couldnt understand really, trying to navigate through neverending memories.
I was prepared for something exciting and thrilling. After 10-20% in the book my excitement to know what happens next felt to the ground and i just read without really reading to the end.
The style didn‘t pass to the message in my opinion. It was like a monologue of a person with a maniacal disorder who sits in front of a wall and speaks.

This is already very, very funny. It simply is NOT THE POINT that this character is not a nice person, not likeable. Baffled by some of the other reviews that find this book unreadable because he's horrible. Hugely entertaining and so well written it hurts.

Compelling glimpse into the mind of a psychopath, the disconnect, the normality, the brutality. The killing of the maid is so well, and chillingly written. Banville really is an extraordinary writer.

This book is so believable I became throughly depressed reading it. The self justification of the main character and self absorbed sociopath tendencies he displays were really quite upsetting. I believed him, I was engaged, pulled in and wanted to do nothing more than to pull him out of the book and shake him until he could learn to feel emotions for other people, and to feel remorse. The writing is amazing, Banville is a genius. This is one of the best books I've read, but also one of the hardest - the writing is fluid, the plot pulls you in but I had to take a few sanity breaks to stop myself hurling into a whirlwind of thoughts about the evils people can do.

Oh, look at me liking evil psychopaths! John Banville, hats off!

Miten mies voi olla niin tyhmä, että varastaa arvokkaan keskiaikaisen taulun turistikierroksella, ottaa panttivangikseen palvelustytön ja sitten vielä surmaa tämän jotenkin vahingossa? Todistajan kirjan Freddie on. Itsestään Freddie sanoo: - Olen toukka, joka tyynesti ja järjestelmällisesti syö tulevaisuutta.

Siitäpä seuraa vankilareissu ja oikeusprosessi, jonka Freddie käytti kirjoittamalla minämuotoisen monologin meidän kaikkien iloksi. Siinä hän tunnustaa tapahtumien päättömän ketjun ja samalla avaa vähintäänkin häiriintynyttä persoonaansa.

Suosittelen tätä kirjaa kyllä, vaikka annoin vain kolme tähteä. Oikeastaan 3,5. Suosittelen koska Booker-palkittu John Banville on syyttä Suomessa hyvin tuntematon. Banville kirjoittaa taitavasti vangitsevaa tekstiä, jossa kiero, kamala ja surullinen sotketaan kiinnostavasti sekaisin. Vain kolme tähteä napsahti siksi, että aihe on liiaksi kierrätetty.

Todistajan kirjassa on muuten todella epäonnistunut kansikuva ja se on ihan erilainen kuin muun kielisissä painoksissa.

Koska Todistajan kirjasta ei löytynyt yhtään suomenkielistä bloggausta kirjoitin sellaisen https://keltainenkirjasto.blogspot.co...

Banville is a genius. The intricate works of imagination. I could read this book again despite it being a little creepy...

'The Book of Evidence' is a monologue of a murderer, his confession. Although Freddy Montgomery is called the 'unreliable narrator', I would not quite agree with that. On the contrary, not many people can be so honest and objective in evaluating one's personality. Freddie is an intelligent but irresponsible and selfish person. It seems he is immature, thoughtless and devoid of empathy. He fits into the definition of sociopath - 'a person who consistently shows no regard for right and wrong and ignores the rights and feelings of others'. He makes the people around him suffer but he does not care and this path leads him to committing an absurd crime.
However, Freddie is a shrewd observer of himself and his environment and a philosopher deep down. It seems to me he does not want to feel but he cannot help it. He is much more complex than this mask of sociopath, cynic and clown he is wearing. He is both repellent and fascinating. That is why it so interesting to follow his train of thought, his inner struggle and his story.

'I have never really got used to being on earth. Sometimes I think our presence here is due to a cosmic blunder, that we were meant for another planet altogether, with other arrangements, and other laws, and other, grimmer skies. I try to imagine it, our true place, off on the far side of the galaxy, whirling and whirling. And the ones who were meant for here, are they out there, baffled and homesick, like us? No, they would have become extinct long ago. How could they survive, these gentle earthlings, in a world that was made to contain us? – it’s scary how true that feels, looking at how people behave. Who else could live in a world designed for us? Even animals give up here on earth.'
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
'I am just amusing myself, musing, losing myself in a welter of words. For words in here are a form of luxury, of sensuousness, they are all we have been allowed to keep of the rich, wasteful world from which we are shut away.
O God, O Christ, release me from this place.
O Someone.'
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
'The long process of his dying wearied and exasperated me in equal measure. Of course I pitied him, too, but I think pity is always, for me, only the permissible version of an urge to give the weak things a good hard shake.'
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
'This is the worst, the essential sin, I think, the one for which there will be no forgiveness: that I never imagined her vividly enough, that I never made her be there sufficiently, that I did not make her live. Yes, that failure of imagination is my real crime, the one that made the others possible. What I told that policeman is true –I killed her because I could kill her, and I could kill her because for me she was not alive. – this is why I always believed people who are cruel suffer some imagination deficit. How can someone be cruel if they can imagine how it feels. Maybe schools should introduce imagination classes.'