I read Banville's Ancient Light a while back, unaware that it was the third book in a trilogy featuring Alexander Cleave, a middle-aged stage actor who suffers a breakdown. Although Eclipse did answer a few questions I had about the characters in Ancient Light and Banville has a lovely way with words, mostly I found Cleave's self-absorption insufferable and the stream-of-consciousness had me flashing back to the painful winter I spent slogging through Ulysses. Maybe I should take a break from male Irish writers until COVID passes and I'm feeling less testy.

CRITIQUE:

Cleaved to a Cloven Actor

The first volume of John Banville's Cleave Trilogy introduces us to Alex Cleave, a semi-retired, fifty year old theatre actor.

He's married to Lydia and, together, they have one 22 (or 23?) year old daughter, Cass.

On Aspects of Cleavage

It's not for no reason that Banville called his protagonist and narrator, Cleave.

The word "cleave" has two opposite meanings:

* to cleave is to split, or sever, something apart, or into two pieces (e.g., cleavage or cloven); and

* to cleave to is to stick to, or stay close to, somebody (e.g., children might cleave to their parents).

In the Name of the Cleaves

This surname suggests that we might witness cracks or fractures in Cleave's identity (or in the identity of the Cleave family).

It might also be the secret of Cleave's acting career and personal life:

n  
n  "I clearly recall the day I first became truly aware of myself, I mean of myself as something that everything else was not...

"A myriad voices struggled within me for expression. I seemed to myself a multitude...

"Acting was inevitable. From earliest days life for me was a perpetual state of being watched. Even when alone I carried myself with covert circumspection, keeping up a front, putting on a performance. This is the actor's hubris, to imagine the world possessed of a single, avid eye fixed solely and always on him. And he, of course, acting, thinks himself the only real one, the most substantial shadow in a world of shades..."n  
n

Single Estrangement

At the heart of the novel is the fact that Cleave and Cass are estranged (it's one of three levels of estrangement in the novel):

n  
n  "She exasperates me, I confess it. I do not trust her...

"At times she has a look, a fleeting, sidelong, faintly smiling look, in which I seem to glimpse a wholly other she, cold and sly and secretly laughing. With such ingenuity does she connect the workings of the world to her own fate. Everything that happens, she is convinced, carries a specific and personal reference to her. There is nothing, not a turn in the weather, or a chance word spoken in the street, that does not covertly pass on to her some profound message of warning or encouragement."n  
n

It's arguable that Cass is as egocentric as her father. Hence, they're unable to break down the barriers between each other and form an affectionate and supportive relationship:

n  
n  "What in my mother was distraction turned out in Cass to be an absence, a lostness. Thus the march of the generations works its dark magic, making its elaborations, its complications, turning a trait into an affliction...

"Whole days my girl would keep to her bed, ignoring all entreaties, all reproaches..."n  
n

Double Estrangement

Cleave is not just estranged from his daughter, he's estranged from his wife.

As so often happens in domestic or family conflicts, Cass plays one parent off against the other, thus damaging the relationship between her parents. Both parents end up plagued by anticipatory guilt about the possible future impact on Cass.

Treble Estrangement

The third level of estrangement is Cleave's estrangement from himself. He ends up alienated from himself and, as a result, the whole world outside. He loses touch with reality, and ends up seeing ghosts around the family beach house to which he has retreated.

On Not Spoiling Cass

Regrettably, it's not possible to discuss the three forms of estrangement or Cass' fate in any more detail without revealing spoilers.

The pleasure of deeper comprehension than I can offer you awaits your own reading of the novel. It's definitely worth it.


SOUNDTRACK:

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - "Girl In Amber"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xDR9i...

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - "Heart That Kills You"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_gDzg...

Nick Cave - on the claim "he lives in my heart" in "One More Time With Feeling"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ucetf...

Van Morrison - "Have I Told You Lately?"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J789G...

Van Morrison and Sinead O'Connor - "Have I Told You Lately?"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wJy77...

Emma Swift - "I Contain Multitudes" [by Bob Dylan]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HMGap...

This was my first Banville work. Honestly, at first it was a tough slog. The narrator was self-indulgent, pompous, unlikeable. The writing, because of the narrator perhaps, was woefully over-descriptive. Then about eighty pages in, the story begins to take shape. It happens slowly, without events really. As reality becomes more evident, the narrative becomes more direct, and the tenuous relationships between these characters begin to make some sense. By the end I was riveted. It was not at all what I expected. I'm glad I stuck with it.

E há em mim qualquer coisa que verga, verga e ressalta em seguida com um esforço cansado. O que é a felicidade senão uma forma requintada de dor?

Este livro praticamente não tem enredo. Porque não precisa dele para ser sublime. Porque quando se tem o domínio da escrita do irlandês John Banville, basta deitar palavras para o papel, basta escrever páginas e páginas de texto compacto sob a forma de monólogo interior para me deixar num estado de pura reverência.

É inconfundível a feroz tenacidade com que a memória fixa as cenas aparentemente mais insignificantes. Há trechos inteiros da minha vida que desapareceram, como uma falésia tragada pelo mar, ao mesmo tempo que me agarro a certas coisas banais com uma obstinação maravilhada.

Numa profunda crise existencial, matrimonial e profissional, o actor Alex Cleave regressa à casa da sua infância que fora também uma pensão, habitada por espectros mais ou menos incorpóreos.

Se tusso, se faço ressoar as páginas de um livro ao fechá-lo, a casa inteira, à maneira de um piano ferido numa das suas teclas, devolve-me o eco de um acorde metálico prolongado e sombrio. Às vezes, tenho a impressão de que o próprio ar que enche cada divisão da casa se reúne para discutir a meu respeito, a respeito daquilo que faço e dos meus gestos.

"Eclipse" é uma fuga, mas é também um reencontro com o inesperado e o inevitável.

- Julgo – disse eu – sinto, e é uma ideia que não me sai da cabeça, que se passou alguma coisa, uma coisa tremenda, a que eu não prestei a devida atenção, não dei a devida importância, porque não sei o que é.
Lydia permaneceu em silêncio, depois soltou uma espécie de riso (...).
- Talvez seja a tua vida – disse ela, então. – É mais que suficiente como desastre, não te parece?

O eclipse do título materializa-se em vários momentos. É um fenómeno físico e simbólico, uma das muitas manifestações de luz e sombra desta obra.

[rating = B+]
Ah, what can I say of Banville that I haven't already said. It is always interesting to read his earlier works; they show such promise that which exhibits in his The Sea or The Untouchable. He's poetic and lovely, perhaps (seemingly) a bit frivolous with language, but he's always doing it for a reason. This tale has many of the motifs and themes of his latter works: a lonely man, a distant wife, an estranged child and an old house (always the old house!). One day I shall write an essay on his old houses, yes one day. Anyway, this is a tale where the narrator (retired, or is he..., actor Alexander Cleave, and note the last name being similar to the word meaning to "cut through") goes through the past, ignoring the future. All is lemony sunlight and deep shadows. His daughter Cass is coming home, and he has retired to his childhood home (another theme) where he writes and contemplates his life, by ignoring it, ironically. The ending "surprise" was a bit awkward, awkwardly done that is. it didn't seem as thought-through as usual, a bit wooly and gimmicky. Yet, his setup and the repercussions are still wonderfully damaging and beautiful. His style is magnificent and shames all other writes, though other writes have more of a story and plot... Yet Banville asks the essential question, shall we forfeit the future by peering back into the past, blinding ourselves to what might happen in our own absence.

4,5 ⭐

El narrador, Alexander Cleave, está en medio de una crisis. Percibe que algo no está bien en su vida. Siente que el nudo central de su problema está en que toda su vida se ha ocupado más de representar que de ser, o de vivir, lo cual cuaja perfectamente con su profesión de actor (aunque el problema lo preceda).

"A veces me parece que es en esos intervalos de vacío, sin que fuera consciente de ello, cuando he vivido de forma más real y auténtica."

Hay al menos un aspecto de su vida que muestra otra cosa: la profunda conexión emocional con su hija, que desde niña ha sido una persona problemática.

En su búsqueda pretende aislarse en la que fue la casa de su infancia, aunque las circunstancias que van ocurriendo lo terminan haciendo muy diferente a la situación idílica que había imaginado, no necesariamente para mal.

Y surgen dudas sobre la sinceridad y la factibilidad de encontrar ese “verdadero yo”, si es que existe tal cosa; o es que siempre será quien es, alguien centrado en sí mismo, que se acerca a la realidad como si fuera un objeto de estudio.

"Estoy convencido de que puedo aprender cosas de los afligidos, pues ellos traen noticias de otra parte, de un mundo en el que los cielos son distintos, donde deambulan criaturas diferentes, y donde las leyes no son las nuestras, un mundo que conocería de inmediato si se me permitiera verlo."

Pero la realidad existe, independientemente de las distancias que se pretenda poner con ella. Y a veces golpea, y permite ser como ninguna otra técnica.

La obra muestra una gran capacidad de observación e introspección, así como una gran imaginación. La narración se desarrolla con maestría artesanal, pudiendo intercalar de manera natural el presente con los recuerdos, contribuyendo a una construcción de gran calidad, y con un final magnífico.

Una novela excelente.

Well.. There are some authors who have this tremendous ability in using words, who write so good, that make me feel unable, or stupid if you wish, to write a review. Banville is one of them. He is so elegant, so poetic, so sophisticated, so excellent. A real stylist of language. The Greek word for literature is made up of two words, speech(or word) and art. This is John Banville, an artist of writing. This is true literature. Beyond plots, characters and all, you just have to let yourself feel the delight of quality reading, let the words penetrate deep inside your brain. I feel "Eclipse" wasn't the most enjoyable book of the four I have read by him so far, but still, great enough to make me praise him. And when Shedish Academy will finally decide to award someone, having as the absolute criterion the use of language, Banville will be one of the most righteous winners ever. Because he is one of a kind. Over and out.

I could only get 40 pages in. The thinly-disguised self-insert of a main character has no redeeming qualities. Self-absorbed, sexist, racist, and refers to domestic violence as "a bit of fisticuffs". I simply cannot endure any more of this simpering yet malicious prose. The character has no depth and his lack of depth is only becoming more apparent as I read.

Un romanzo pinteriano: sembra infatti la versione narrativa e protratta delle opere di Pinter. Non una in particolare, ma del suo teatro in toto. Ed è infatti sempre presente, in qualche modo, il teatro: dal protagonista ex-attore al narratore (che poi è la stessa persona) che definisce i personaggi come comparse, maschere, personaggi comici o personaggi tragici. Ma basterebbe anche leggere l’incipit della quinta e ultima parte:

Con un fruscio il sipario si alza sull’ultimo atto. Luogo: lo stesso. Tempo: qualche settimana dopo.

Certo, la forma è comunque quella romanzesca, compresa una presenza del pensiero del protagonista (e narratore) discretamente forte, e che sarebbe inconsueta in Pinter, anche solo perché il mezzo teatrale non lo permette. Si viene così chiaramente a perdere l’estrema sinteticità di cui Pinter era maestro e in cui si divertiva a eccedere fino a far saltare alcuni passaggi logici, mettendo in difficoltà lo spettatore. Una difficoltà che non si presenta per il lettore di questo romanzo; comunque un ottimo lavoro, non perfetto ma molto migliore del precedente Banville in cui mi ero imbattuto (The Sea, se qualcuno se lo sta chiedendo).

Parts were mysterious and parts were mysteriously dull. An old man who might be losing the thread and starts seeing ghosts and/or old acquaintances. You don’t always know which and that’s what adds to the intrigue of the story. However, there were sections that were dead boring. Manages an okay 2-star rating on my end.

A beautifully written tale of memory and loss, Eclipse is the story of a middle aged man who returns to his boyhood home to jump start his life after his acting career comes to a brutal halt. He grubs among the ghosts and locals who swirl around him, looking for answers. During his search a terrible tragedy occurs, and it's the strange, fragile town girl, Lily, who yields her substitutive place to his massive grief.

Judging by the cover of the book, the title should be "Thursday Nights at the Hefner Household". I hate to disappoint people who rely on their book covers to give them an accurate reflection of the contents, there is no rich people's blind grope-a-thon party taking place here. If that should sour your prejudgement of the novel, then so be it. At least someone was kind enough to warn you.

There are times I think that Banville reads with utter glee the reviews of his own novels, rubs his hands together while cackling and says, "Think that last one was ambiguous and oblique? You ain't seen nothing yet!" Only with a cool accent (I assume he speaks with an accent, at least to these American ears). Then he comes out with something else delightfully enigmatic, with that finely tuned prose laid so softly that you can easily hear the gnashing of teeth from people attempting to "get" it.

If you're someone who likes to feel like you're on a similar wavelength to whatever the author is transmitting, this one is probably going to frustrate you. I can't even say it's his most evasive plot, as I thought "Athena" was as solid as fraying gossamer and from I remember of "Book of Evidence" I suspect I'd have a different interpretation of the book if I read it a second time. The plot itself, or what persists of it, is fairly straightforward: Alexander Cleave, former famous actor, comes back to his old house and decides to get lost in memories. Along the way he hangs out with the guy who takes care of the house and his teenage daughter. He argues with his wife. He waits for his daughter. Things happen without really happening. At some point, life happens, or at least Banville's fractured stained glass version of life, pristine from a distance. It's only when you get close enough that you can see where the moisture is starting to seep in.

If there's one word to describe the book, it's probably "static". We're not quite at Beckett levels but from a very real standpoint the book is completely wrapped in words. Snatches of dialogue poke through, like that one Pink Floyd album everyone likes but for the most part the voice that breaks through is that of the narrator, telling us about himself. But like most Banville narrators he's not exactly vibrant and full of zest, instead for the most part he's clinical and slightly distant, speaking with a precise diction that lights a slow fire without ever bursting into screams, like that weird town in Pennsylvania that never stops burning underground. You can see the signs that things are getting hot and that someday something bad is going to happen but for the most part, it's not so bad to visit.

None of this would have a prayer of working if Banville didn't have such control of his prose. While his narrators are often cut from the same dry cloth, he's often able to shade things so that one can never be mistaken for the other. His other characters might have given off a tinge of menace, but here Cleave comes across as both weary and sad, wandering through the haunted rooms of his own life and not sure if he's become a ghost himself or he's doing a fairly good impression of one. Along the way he treats us to scenes from his life, memories, ruminations, like someone who has dumped out all the contents of his life onto the floor and is trying to figure out whether it's worth sorting out or if he should just chuck it all in and say the heck with it. As such, you're not dealing with a conventional plot and any enjoyment of this is going to depend on how much you tune into Banville's "voice" via Cleave, as all the events come across as somewhat incidental, stray instances from a life that has been in the process of slowing down. If you're like me and you enjoy his writing style, you could read about him describing the exits on a highway all day and derive some interest out of it. If you're waiting for a plot or mystery to kick in, you're in for a long wait. He throws in ghosts and hints of buried memories but those come across as feints, something to keep the kiddies interested as he digs deep into the character. There's even an undercurrent of "Waiting for Godot", as he and his wife alternate waiting for their daughter to arrive from wherever she is, talking about her as if she's right outside.

That alone probably keeps the novel from being as effective as it could be. It hums along pleasantly enough but as soon as it starts to gather enough mass to steer itself into the direction of Cleave actively affecting events as opposed to merely drifting through his memories, the book is practically over. A late tragic event shows that Banville still retains his ability to infuse some good old fashioned emotional power into the proceedings, as we're touched by the death of someone we never even meet. But is the point of the book to lead up to all that, or are we meant to find other reasons and meanings in the displays? It's hard to say, and as typical for Banville, he's not quite saying. Sometimes his prose seems to me a wondrous approximation of a version of life infused with a shimmering poetry, all ice vowing never to be melted. And for all the seemingly aimlessness of its episodic structure, this is one of his few books that is willing to let that ice crack slightly, and allow a little blood to seep to the surface. Only a little, and you have to stick with it to find it but its enough to remind you that a heart can exist underneath those stacked prisms and its more than an empty construction of exquisite words.