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B S Johnson in The Unfortunates is famed for writing a book that with the
exception of the starting and the end chapter, the reader is encouraged to
read the remainder in a random manner. Similarly, between this paragraph and
the end, feel free to read whichever cut takes your fancy and in whatever
order. Why? People tire of reading reviews whose sole purpose is to deride
the work in hand; those wishing something more positive can select just the
juicy cuts. In contrast, there is a perverse reader whose chief delight is
drawing up a seat ring-side for the review equivalent of a bare-knuckle bout.
Such a reader is advised to select the cheap cuts only. Lastly, while
acquiring a couple of worthless Master of Arts degrees in English based
subjects, I came across lecturers, who probably never had an original idea in
their head, deride B S Johnson's bid to create something new. Here's the
upper-cut for B S: -
Offal: at times, Bartlett's prose is tough and indigestible, defying easy
assimilation. The opening chapters suffer from sentences drained of impact by
the over-use of brackets. Thereafter, he delights in creating long unwieldy
structures, that have a minute main part, dwarfed by the remainder; the
whole, cobbled together by a semi-colon, straining to keep sense and sentence
going to the end of the stop. I have not seen anything quite like it since
reading Ann Radcliffe's, The Italian. Perhaps, Bartlett is enrichening his prose with stylistic, literary
allusions; trading in Gothic tropes. Ten out of ten for pastiche, but I
wished he had not bothered. Simple sentences, would have served the work
better than overly alembicated strangulated syntax. That said, I must point
out that much of Bartlett's style aids his purpose admirably.
Surloin: the purpose of symbolic grammar is to use stylistic devices to
accentuate meaning. Bartlett specialises in a spatial disruption of semantic
wholes: paragraphs, sentences that ought to belong together are broken by
line spacing. The result is not a minimalist lack of cohesion, an
inarticulate stutter, but a pause for thought and consideration. The weight
of extra white space, gives force and emphasis to the unfolding crisis.
Mince: you never know quite what you are getting. In Skin Lane you are never sure of the narrator. It is not, yet
another doubtful case of the unreliable narrator, telling it how it isn't,
but more the point of view is skewed by a mischievous demon. You wonder about
the possibility of narration by a lesser God; not quite up to omniscience, just a few asides,
some that dip in to present tense, despite sequential historical unfolding of
the tale. The narrator does not seem to be the author, either. It is not an
intrusive author, but an intrusive sprite, who insists upon the occasional
commentary from the side-lines, followed by a not-quite conclusive end
summation. Neither God nor author, but a character working in the margins of
the story. The approach works, but on occasions, less of the `character',
would have been welcome. To be fair, a virtue of the interjections is that it
provides some relief between the psychological crises. In mince, the meat is
often padded with shredded fat, the narrator's closing chapters, could have
been stripped of much stodge.
Pigs ears: are actually very good, singe the hair of them, slice thinly, and
let them cook and crackle in their own fat. A short aside from my usual
pomposity: Bartlett has a wicked sense of humour. His choice of names brings
a wry smile to the face, such as a Jewish Furriers sited at: Number Four Skin
Lane. His main character, Mr Freeman is anything but. Further, he is known at
Mr F, but until the drama of the narrated events, he has fought shy of the
F-word and associative acts. Unlike a camp tailor-made character, from a
seventies sitcom: Mr F is most definitely not-Free.
Choice cuts: without recourse to the slander of being derivative or the
intellectual dead end of intertextuallity, Skin Lane is firmly located within the modern, London
grotesque. Peter Ackroyd remains the master of this particular textual
facade, establishing the Neo-Gothic's supervenient relationship to London
with Hawksmoor, The
House of Doctor Dee, Dan Leno and the Limehouse Golem, et al. But,
Bartlett's Skin Lane is a fine
addition to this urban landscape of the macabre. There is something of the
overdrawn, mannerist, exaggeration in this school that stands firmly upon the
shoulders of Dickens. Bartlett's Mrs Kesselman could easily be smuggled
inside an edition of Master Humphrey's Clock, as could the city location of his plot. There is
a certain pleasure by proxy in all of this, one reads a new book while
revisiting previously appreciated literature. A result of this is that the
book is less of a shock, cushioned by its similarity to other texts, themes,
characters and place: the possibility of the finding the defamiliar fades.
Tripe: there is a cracking quotation from the British Olympic champion of
no-holds-barred-dis-Combobulation that is tantamount to a category mistake.
The writer, reviewer and fine critic, suggests that Skin Lane is a Òtaut little psycho-shockerÓ. It isn't. Aye,
there are tensions, but really very little shocks in store. As for psycho? On
the pulp side, Tom Harris Lecter would eat this book for breakfast washed
down no doubt with a heavy, full-flavoured Rioja, on the pretentious
post-modern side Brat Easton Ellis would have our central character, Mr
Freeman, for breakfast, dinner, tea and tapas bar with or without, a lengthy
Rioja. It does not do Bartlett justice to put his Skin Lane in with the rest of the shlock-oholics. He has
deeper, more lasting and important pleasures to offer than any possible shock
value.
Rump: does my research look big in this? There is an old adage, never let your
research shew. It is about time they finally put a bullet in a couple of old
adages maugre and in spite of the power of the grey vote. There is a big,
thick juicy cut of this book that really entertains, whilst also convincing
the reader of many of the characters' reality. The detail regarding the skin
trade is not just a prop, part of the fabric of the texts enabling the author
to work his masterpiece, but a distinct pleasure of learning something about
a hidden and perhaps, (no pun intended) dying trade. Bartlett's treatment of
this subject thoroughly convinces; there is a sensuality to his words that
treats of pelts, tools and cuts: his writing is almost tactile.
The Champion's Portion: if not a psycho-shocker, then what is Skin
Lane? The book's greatest strength is its
treatment of its central character. Mr Freeman undergoes mental
disintegration, a re-value of all values, an aching discovery of self and a
liberation made possible by a conflagration of the soul. Bartlett's handling
of Freeman is masterful, moving and in a strange way, tender. He is never
mawkish. He respects the Golem he has created.
Gristle: if I were to level one criticism of the book, it is that I am not
sure why Mr F is suddenly haunted by his dream; a dream which provides the hypostasis
to his death and rebirth. Something for me to chew on, but it does not debar
that this is a delight of a read, well crafted and well intended.
Last paragraph, please read, I warmed to this book, was intrigued,
entertained, and made to think and feel about how a place becomes part of a man's soul and how that soul
can be broken free. A wonderful myth of creation as the latter half of the
twentieth century is birthed.
© Daithidh
MacEochaidh 2007
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