Tom Harris Book

A minor masterpiece. Minor because it did not reflect the spirit of its time. Nor does it reflect the spirit of this or any time. Its spirit is not connnected to the world at large. It has, like stars and fluorescent bulbs, a cold and brilliant spirit; a spirit that doesn't demand to be charged by the reader. Masterpiece because it is well-composed and finely-comported, free of error in style or taste.

When speaking of style, this novel is of two minds. The first half of the book is of the mind of the somewhat typically reserved British English that used to be common in movies and books but now seems antique. The second half, beginning on page 167, sounds more immediate, more urgent, and I would even say more American (although the character is English). The second half is meant to be a journal, or rather a recreation of a journal, and so the immediacy, awkwardness and even amateurishness is explained, as well as appreciated (by me, at least).

This novel muses. That's the other thing I like about it. It chews on ideas. Themerson was primarily a philosopher so it's not a surprise that he should allow his playthings the chance to turn things over, like a chicken on a spit, in their minds. It's a contemplative sort of novel, one that doesn't shy away from eccentricity.