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TABLE OF CONTENTS
PREFACE ............................................................................................................................................................................. 6
I. THE DESPERADO AGE
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LIDIA VIANU
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PREFACE
This book is an attempt at renaming literature at the start of the third millennium. It hopes to offer a birds
eye view of what was written during the last five decades of the twentieth century and what is being written in this
Lidia Vianu
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There are two major directions in 20th century literature: the stream of consciousness and the Post-stream of
consciousness, the latter being known as Postmodernism (Post-Postmodernism and the rest). Considering that any
trend has its posterity, post-movements or post-trends have been known to exist as long as literature has existed.
Those which had a clear meaning attached to them also acquired a name that stayed with us. Quite a number of
critics have tried to formulate one Postmodern theory or another, and the so-called Postmodernist movement has
struggled for its life for a number of decades. At present, all the numberless opinions slowly dismember.
The specific feature of the period 1950-2004 in literature, maybe not only literature, in fact, is auctorial
individualism, the denial of group psychology. The word is each for himself, everybody their own trend. This time
of utmost literary solitude and bravery, of everyone creating what and how they please and taking the audience
their hostage, keeping the reader at their mercy, I have called the DESPERADO AGE.
I will try to outline the essential features of Desperado literature, dividing them into nine sections, but this
will be in no way an attempt at exhausting the field.
1. Plot (in all genres, but mainly fiction)
The Desperado writer comes back to the story, focusses on plot again, relies heavily on suspense. After
Joyce and Virginia Woolf had flooded fiction with lyricism and imposed the rule of the word, reducing plot to the
adventures of the word or the lyrical trips into the self that remembers according to subconscious associations,
another generation follows. Alasdair Gray, Kazuo Ishiguro, Julian Barnes, Graham Swift, John Fowles and many
other writers understand that the novel was about to die, and reinstate story-telling. Had Joyce continued the path
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expectations, which, as far as time is concerned, could be named the confusion of chronology.
Whether the narrative is in the first or the third person, the story inevitably slips into the biography of a
character who narrates. Repeatedly, in Doris Lessing, David Lodge, Martin Amis, the story relies on the pattern of
one life. Not several equally important lives, as in Galsworthys impressive architecture, as in Dickens even. Just
one life, which swallows everything else. The peculiarity of the Desperado hero, the hold of plot on the reader
resides in the individualizing narrative. Incidents flow into the basket of one heros biography, and all the rest are
mere pretexts for the show to go on.
Although the incidents that make up the plot reach our consciousness in a disorderly manner, there is a
sense of chronology and we cannot ignore it. The author does not basically violate chronology, he merely ignores
its traditional representation, the progress from past to future. The time sequence no longer is the support of
causality, it no longer rules the plot, imposing its logic on incidents and characters, on the readers perception of
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expectation short and actually heightens the desire to go on reading, sharing the newly found universe of the
book. Whatever the case may be, the open ending, by hook or by crook, is an insurance policy of the text, which
survives in rereading. The Desperado author makes sure the readers will never forget, because they will never
leave the text. Creation becomes a timeless trap.
The universe the author imagines is gradually revealed. The reader is educated in the spirit of growing
patience. The author imposes an ascetic reading. Joyce, Woolf, T.S. Eliot were elliptical, refused to explain, made a
deliberate plan to require the reader to piece up the work using its fragments. The stream of consciousness
mechanically did away with all connecting words and thoughts, but coherence and order survived underground. A
Desperado is a writer for whom order is meaningless. The reader no longer feeds on the creators plan, he no
longer reorders planned disorder. Desperado literature bars the reader from experiencing the joy of discovering at
the very last a logical, coherent whole. The Desperado denies the tyranny of logic and lives in alogicality.
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After the stream of consciousness had smashed characters into tiny words (keeping them painfully alive,
all the same), splinters of thought, reflex gestures and cultured meditation, Desperado literature brings palpable
characters back into the story. The author imagines somebody in flesh and blood. It does not matter that the
imagined person behaves oddly, has an intimidating past, entertains such tangled thoughts that nobody in the
text or outside it can order them. Tragic or funny, more or less energetic, the odd hero is very much alive, too,
apparently coherent, in fact all the more appealing as its enigmatic side keeps growing and growing.
The Desperado author rejects explicit psychological analysis, possibly because it was the major discovery
of Henry James and then of the stream of consciousness. More than thoughts, which are there all right, it is actions
that speak. The hero is incident addicted. His inner monologue is rich, but it evolves from act to act more than
from one idea to another. Caught in the web of the plot, this one hero, since one is enough for a plot, appears as a
magnified memory. Inert and all puzzled, he is the ultimate witness. His inner and outer life are one. Life happens
to him, and he endures far beyond what his being can take. Reality devours him. Thought is his last resort.
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Characterization relies heavily upon rememoration. The Desperado author repeatedly uses certain
essential moods: disarray, alogicality (or logic abandoned), abolished (un)happiness, false resignation
accompanied by existential malaise, irritation, in short all sorts of suffering. The hero himself exposes his private
life, or allows it to be exposed, almost masochistically. Compared to the flamboyant love of life of a James Joyce,
the emblematic experience of the Desperado hero, whether joking or in earnest, is existence as an ordeal, not as
joy.
3. Style
The style of Henry James, James Joyce, T.S. Eliot, the style of the stream of consciousness was heavy with
lyricism, exasperating readers with its elliptical secrecy. The readers major concern was to find the literal meaning
first, and the symbols were investigated only after the text had been clarified. The Desperado style blinds us with
colloquial clarity. Julian Barnes and Alasdair Gray, for instance, state that all they want is to make themselves
understood. This shows us that Desperado authors have learnt the lesson of the stream of consciousness, they
have learnt from previous disastrous experience that the reader comes first, that creation should focus on reading.
The Desperado author affords a comfortable reading experience, although meaning is far from obvious. The
readers comfort is a consequence of the more than accessible language the writer uses, a language that rejects
sophistication, welcomes familiarity, cleans words from far-fetched associations or encoded symbols. Encoding,
ambiguity have lost the ground they had gained and kept for several decades. Difficulty is not lost. We find it in a
complicated order of detail, which is actually part of the plot, but is mirrored in style too, in the fact that
apparently understanding is free and easy, when in fact it is greatly slowed down by the imperative need to
remember whatever is written on the page. Every little word will sometime come in handy. To a large extent, the
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that reading is complex and, just as it happens in life, it has its moments of sweetness.
The Desperado authors are is quite fond of four-letter words. They rebelliously rend shyness, defying the
previous bravery, upgrading it, so to say. Beyond the analysis of a mind in progress, Desperadoes instinctively slip
into a public confession of the darkest secrets. Whether we are faced with taboo thoughts which are unveiled with
masochistic brutality, or physical life is so bluntly conveyed that it borders on vulgarity, utter honesty is a
Desperado manner. In order to shatter and rape the readers understanding, the author breaks all interdictions.
The shameless style makes for sharpness of the text. Without an aesthetic motivation, shamelessness might turn
into pornography. As it is, the result of deliberate freedom from shyness leads to a firm text, which reaches
psychological depth by shocking propriety. Alasdair Gray states in an interview that he cannot reread his own
novel because, after finishing it, he became again the shy person he was before writing that particular novel. Other
authors are verbally very decent, but reveal shocking moral or emotional ugliness. Whether stylistically or
emotionally, the Desperado writer is in love with inciting, intriguing abnormality.
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Every Desperado is painfully aware that language definitely cannot be an obstacle in his type of narrative,
which is not the easiest thing in the world to grasp, mainly because it resorts to the order of memory and
exaggerates, perfects what the stream of consciousness merely discovered. Superficial clarity is accompanied by
indirectness. Narration is far more than story-telling. Henry James inaugurated ambiguous narration, at the end of
which the readers hardly knew which hero they should side with, who was to blame and who was not. For
Desperadoes, all heroes are blameless to start with, they are all indisputably right. The most concrete incidents
cohere in a story of the mind, the hidden mechanisms of initial thoughts are unveiled. Unuttered feelings must be
guessed at. Desperado reluctance to verbalize the soul goes hand in hand with apparent verbal shamelessness.
Feelings merely hinted at show us how certainty is replaced by guessing. The author falls prey to the temptation of
hiding, because by being indirect he can complicate things and the text glimmers with life, even if all this takes
place behind the stage of a clear style, which becomes the only traffic sign in a maze of roads. The Desperado
paradox is born out of the despair to complicate, associated with the determination to be accessible, easily
understood.
4. Relationship with the critic
The Desperado author is very much interested in being accepted, praised, and dislikes (who doesnt?) being
found at fault, all the more so as he claims he could not care less. Julian Barnes emphatically states it is the easiest
thing in the world to quit criticism. Sophistication of the work amounts actually to claiming the critics attention,
making sure the reader is a fan, not an enemy. All Desperadoes are addressing an initiated reader, who is far more
than a mere relaxed reader. The Desperado writer creates the challenging text. It is a deliberate challenge, its
effects are expected, planned, very much unlike the turmoil of revolt in the Stream of consciousness. The authors
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that no Desperado is willing to subscribe to this guilty intention. Quite the reverse, the writers state with
determination they hate to manipulate their audience, the work writes itself, no premeditation involved. Actually,
they attempt a deliberate involvement of the reader (triggered by the complication of the work). Consequently,
reading Desperado literature can be, actually is, exasperating, bewitching and, more often than not, disarming.
The readers role is to decode. As he unravels devices, he becomes the authors confessor. He accedes to
the story, by means of which the author traps him, but he is constantly intrigued, by every step forward, every
obstacle which bars a traditional approach. The reader has been promoted from the passive school to the active
school of reading (which process was started by the stream of consciousness). The Desperado reader is, in the
end, a shock addict. When a text looks too accessible, it most certainly hides something missed at first sight. This
reader can be defined thus: Tell me how intrigued you are, and I will tell you if you really are a Desperado.
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7. Displacement
The Desperado author can be identified by his repeated attempt at leaving one space and moving into
another, leaving one age for another, or simply by leaving and then finding another fixed point (often much worse
than the previous, but refreshingly new). The passage, travel, departure and shipwreck, the discovery of the island,
are compulsory for these restless writers starving for the unusual.
As a consequence of the fact that the authors travel, go on endless pilgrimages, the Desperado works are
pervaded by an acute need for a home, by a feeling of rootlessness. Some authors come to the English language
from other geographical areas (India, Japan, Africa), and their roots become inessential. The fact that they were
born elsewhere entitles them to feel they belong everywhere and nowhere at the same time, they exist in a literary
utopia, without borders such as space, language, time. The Desperado work aspires at being international,
although it focusses on the haunting fear that it can find no refuge anywhere.
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The displaced hero complains of an inner void which menaces all coherence. This inner void explains and
supports the inexplicable side of his psychology, the maze of thoughts and feelings which the reader has to cross
when he tries to piece up the hero.
All Desperado heroes are intensely solitary. Not even love can bring them together, and other feelings are
apparently mere shadows of traditional passionate turmoils. Which does not mean lack of intensity. Quite the
reverse. Intensity is exacerbated. Detached from reality, yet handcuffed to it, inert yet crucified to the narrative,
slashed into numberless captivating incidents, the people of these paradoxical books are paradoxical themselves,
contradictory beings who are finally unexplained and inexplicable on the whole, incomplete circles, mouths
The authors are oppressed by the constant struggle for survival. Life is a burden, more than mere joy, even
in the humorous books. The heroes long for the peace and carelessness of childhood, they feel driven away from
an unknown paradise which they subconsciously long for incessantly. The Desperado hero is restless, his worldwide sadness is lyrical in nature, and it projects a meditative halo around all characters.
All displaced beings go through several basic experiences: the struggle to emulate natives, the fear of
rejection or despising attitudes, the risk of never being understood properly. These experiences result in a
nightmarish atmosphere (see Kazuo Ishiguro in The Unconsoled, Salman Rushdie in Midnights Children), a
nightmare of alienation. The heroes build themselves islands of familiarity, dreams, loves, sentimentality, but their
life mostly unfurls in an inimical world, a hostile universe. The displaced Desperado authors experience a subtle,
incurable frustration. Irony and tragedy join hands.
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Waste Land. Beginning with Huxley, we can talk about Desperadoes. Besides Brave New World, Huxley also
imagined Ape and Essence. Others follow: William Golding (Lord of the Flies), Anthony Burgess (A Clockwork
Orange, Honey for the Bears), Doris Lessing (The Good Terrorist, The Fifth Child, The Memoirs of a Survivor),
Malcolm Bradbury (Rates of Exchange, Mensonge), Alasdair Gray (Lanark, Poor Things), David Lodge (Nice Work),
Julian Barnes (Staring at the Sun, The Porcupine), Peter Ackroyd (Hawksmoor, Chatterton, English Music), Kazuo
Ishiguro (The Unconsoled), Alan Brownjohn (The Long Shadows), and many more. We are not always faced with
science fiction. Quite the reverse, the surroundings are most often than not apparently common. The dystopia
begins insidiously, with a defamiliarization of the familiar. The familiar present, exaggerated and blackened, is
projected into future indeterminacy. Defamiliarization is accompanied by a maximized fear. In a nightmarish, yet
very real world, heroes live naturally. Gray even confesses that it was his aim to see how far he could go, how hard
he could stretch the heros rationality, and he placed his character in abnormal circumstances, boasting with the
characters very natural reactions to the unusual.
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(human nature, teenage violence), apocalyptic (the atomic threat), old age, the crisis of civilization (death used as
food for further life).
Terror has an opposite pole in Desperado dystopias: the author uses literature in order to rehabilitate
ugliness, and he does so much more efficiently than T.S. Eliot did in his aesthetics of the ugly, in 1922. The writer
imagines frantically, allows himself to be carried away by his own imagination, and this message of the joy of
living the dystopia is that whatever the imagination can hold is alive, consequently the dystopia becomes an
apology of life, a kind of life that knows no border between beautiful and ugly, a life in which mere existence (it is
irrelevant to call it good or bad) counts.
Dystopia is the result of the Desperado instinct to intrigue and shock the reader at all costs. From
defamiliarization, through imagination, the reader comes to accept a multitude of alien worlds. The message is not
fear or despair; the reader learns to adapt himself to the dystopic world, whatever that may be, and his mind
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drama, essay, literary criticism and literary history. Any technique is good, all techniques must be combined, as
many as possible in the same text, no matter what age they belong to or what literary genre. Desperado literature
is a merry-go-round of techniques: realism, oneirism, symbolism, stream of consciousness, absurd. The word is
handled with an eye wide open to preserving clarity, but to the one aim of making it proof of personality. A sum
total of all trends, devices he knows (whatever age they belong to), the author who could qualify for the Desperado
community flatly refuses being enrolled in any collectivity, group, movement, because he feels utterly different
from all the rest, so he proclaims himself his own trend.
A Desperado text is a composite text, a text within a text within a text, a multitude of texts in one. The
cultured text is also very pragmatic at the same time. Contraries meet. The Desperado rewrites all literature. He
deals with literature according to his own laws, doing everything in his power to go against the grain. If he makes
the law, he is his own and only ruler. What makes us discuss a contemporary Desperado community is that, true
enough, birds of a feather flock together: they are all unbelievably similar in their despair to be dissimilar.
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Modern Fiction was an act of rejection. She turned her back on Galsworthy, Bennett and Wells, but she was not
really prepared for a substantial change. Many critics have noticed that she discovered denial, nothing else. I
should say she replaced the old convention of predictability, the old horizon of strong expectations, by a new
convention of defiance. If readers had grown too addicted and accustomed to peaceful, gratifying reading, she
decided to wake them up: she used symmetrical opposition and came up with the imperious need for
unpredictability. The stream of consciousness novel is what we do not expect to see on page, whether it is in point
of structure (plot, character, chronology, all shattered, reshuffled, different from what centuries of literature had
made them into), or, more confusing, in point of style. If plot, character and chronology had a gift of rearranging
themselves in the readers mind according to old patterns once he had done reading, the style slipped dangerously
into lyricism, made understanding arduous, and we can safely say that the novel suffered for fifty years from the
malady of the word.
The features of a novel such as Ulysses or Mrs. Dalloway are: complicated architecture of memories,
emotions and verbal associations, supported by a hidden intention, a concealed plan, the compression of all
meanings by means of a language which left the purpose of mere communication, straying into poetry. The
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novels, apparently deprived of what was the basic food of literature for at least nineteen centuries. We used to
form an intimacy with the hero as we read his story and expected the suspense, the absolute end. We are no
longer supposed to expect anything. We form an intimacy with the author, who baffles us and confuses the text. If
the novel used to be a statement, it is a question mark now, and it is the reader who must find his own answers or
stay forever displeased.
20th century realism (Galsworthy is the best representative) still hopes to please the reader. Forsyte Saga is a
consummate architecture of conventional devices, from perfect chronology to plot and character. Its main rule is
logic. The readers guide is his own understanding, which passively travels across the incidents, all connected and
meaningfully built into a pyramid longing for an attainable future. The horizon of expectation in such novels has
been the same for twenty centuries and more: something begins and ends, and we see the interim. This is what
the Desperado refuses to do. He rejects both the convention of order (traditional novel) and that of deliberate
disorder (stream of consciousness). We could easily sum up the main moments of a novel by Dickens, Cervantes,
Petronius (to go backwards). The chronological sequence makes sense. The same attempt at restoring chronology
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(see The Odyssey in Ulysses and Shakespeare, among a crowd of other writers, in The Waste Land). When Alasdair
Gray just one random example or Julian Barnes resort to other texts, they destroy those texts with their grin,
their irony tells us: Do not trust them do not trust me, no other text but mine can be taken seriously, and even my
text has to be viewed with a smile, with the love of game in your mind. Irony is the mother of the text as a
challenging game.
(2) In interviews, Desperadoes are fond of denying the question. You say they love to play with their readers and
they reply, I love my readers and want to impress them, not challenge. A Desperado is always in denial: he denies
statements, he denies first impressions, he builds his always present suspense on denying the readers horizon of
expectation. He even denies denials (see Ishiguro denying the denial of love in The Remains of the Day). A
Desperado states in the negative: the baffling hero, the confusing incident are his major means of communication.
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endings in full view, in The French Lieutenants Woman. Since the couple is discarded, the future looks useless and
the end is a dead device. Its only role is to create anxiety, which it amply does.
(5) Desperadoes pine for love, yet mistrust it as the pillar of any story. Lessings The Golden Notebook is all about
the absence of love, while proclaiming the freedom of women from men. Waterland is an image of old age and
faint reminiscences of the trouble caused by young love, now all but vanished. The stream of consciousness
discredited love theoretically, yet still clung to it (see V. Woolf, who would not breathe without emotion). The
Desperadoes snicker when they should sympathize, love is a source of fun. Their irony is dry, although they are
very much concerned with the readers emotional involvement in the work. Barnes, Swift, Lodge, Bradbury, Amis,
Gray, all of them, actually, deny their characters shared emotions. Since the hero is ultimately and mainly alone,
love is a forbidden form of communication.
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(9) Make a clean breast of all the skeletons in your cupboard and do not mince words about it : be shameless.
(10) Be both sympathetic and arrogant, in a mixture known only to yourself.
(11) Be alive and kicking while talking about all kinds of mortifications.
(12) Be CONTRADICTORY: argue with yourself.
(13) Be FREE from everybody elses words. Which brings us to:
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to that now.
Do not get all excited about what Martin Amis used to call the literary genres bleeding into one another, be a
good surgeon of fiction and use the scalpel of hybridization in cold blood, because if you get all fidgety about the
least discovery (as the stream of consciousness did), you risk being thrown into jail on a charge of inaccessibility.
From the most abstract idea of literature, from the text written out of and even about other texts, squeeze the
least drop of life, and claim this life is your major concern (even though it is convention that you covet).
2. How to be free
Be different, no matter what. Be different from all other writers, and do not be ashamed to differ from yourself
(Eliot was the first who begged to differ from his own youth, and it took him a lifetime to do it. Do it sooner, do it
more often and to hell with readers who expect the Ishiguro flavour, the Barnes witticism, the Swift lyricism, the
Lodge fun, etc.).
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3. Why be free
Because you must find yourself by escaping all preconceived patterns.
Because you need all your strength to allure readers.
Because you are on the verge of the most wonderful discovery ever: the perfect work.
Because you know better that to conform to older minds.
Because you cannot find anything new and amazing by using old cannons: discard old tracks and set out for the
New World (Columbus did not come up with the right name for it, but you might, and if you do not, Desperado will
be a dead word).
Because YOU CAN DO IT, whatever it is, and because you are worth it (advertisement is the soul of
communication, and we must never ignore Public Relations).
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as varied and as different. Consequently, the Desperadoes claim today, All we want to do is give you the truth.
The Desperado imagination adapts to a new nature, a new reality. It always brings about confusion, and the
reader stops and wonders: Is this a new experience, or is it just a baffling of my old way of looking at things?
Defiance is in the nature of all conventions. The only difference is that for many centuries, since ancient times to
the realism of our own century, readers have been fed one pattern, that of chronological causality, of the couple
living (un)happily ever after. The couple and the ending are two outmoded, exhausted conventions. For the first
time, the Desperadoes defy the very basis of traditional fiction. The defiance is stronger than the stream of
consciousness hybridization of literary genres. Joyce, Woolf, Eliot merely played with the existing conventions, and
kept them whole, actually. Literature became a game. Desperadoes find this game and all they can think of is to
smash it to pieces. They claim they want truth, not just a game, but their truth is desperately confusing. It is very
hard to create a new convention when you start by smashing all components that could have been useful.
Imagination works hard, and here we are in front of a question which is in fact as old as the hills: Truth or fiction?
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the reader, they want the reader on their side, and very much pleased by the work. They mean to say that they
need this reader to hold their hand, to trust and believe, wile they baffle, even ruin all his expectations. They claim
this is the immediacy of life, that they do not offer fiction but nature, and we must bear with the text, because the
war with old conventions is long and hard. The Desperado reader, steeped in intertextuality and other such fine
tricks, trots along the new book, disabused and snubbed, till suddenly a miracle happens and he changes. Reading
is no longer mere involvement. The reader learns defiance from the author, and Desperado reading is essentially
incredulous (is the truth in the work?) and dissatisfied.
The critic is more easily silenced. The contention that the work is the truth and not a mere image of it leads
to the idea that, since the truth cannot be changed, the work is above argument. Julian Barnes confesses he has
quit criticism. Other Desperadoes surrender and accept criticism, claiming that anyone can see in the text what
they please. If the author does not even fight for copyright of his fiction, it is easy to understand why the critic is
so cautious to approach the mine hidden in the Desperado text.
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This Desperado work has two extremes in it: on the one hand, it has peace, since truth is in it; on the other hand,
it is haunted by impatience, since what it does with the truth is fiction, and this fiction is the most ambitious so
far.
2. DIARY MAYBE?
The shape of Desperado fiction is varied, yet more often than not it has a diary-like quality. It records
incidents in the first or third person. The incidents are disparate and the author keeps them short, like daily
entries. The Desperado novel rarely has more than one main hero, so the book is easily seen as this one heros
self-revelation. The order of incidents is apparently dictated by hazard. In fact the hero postpones the
embarrassing, hides the key of our disapproval. Dickens, the Brontes, Galsworthy, had positive and negative
characters. There is no such thing for a Desperado author. The one hero he offers us is good and bad at once,
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such an exacerbated use of suspense. The book is not a carefree diary, with a reliable past to remember, present
to describe and future to hope for. The book is a maybe diary, helpless to imagine tomorrow, but highly skilful in
playing with the past. Some authors write as if they were keeping a diary, and they are the introverts (Orwell,
Burgess, Lessing, Gray, Ackroyd, Swift, Ishiguro). Others talk, jump, attempt a traditional plot which looks
insufficient to a lover of tradition, and those are the histrionic Desperadoes (Fowles, Bradbury, Lodge, Barnes,
Amis). With some, lyricism softens the narrative rage. There are all kinds of Desperadoes: bitter, mocking,
compassionate. What keeps them together is the addiction to incident and the diary technique, which places the
plot in the indeterminacy of memory.
Since the fiction resulted is a diary, a day to day progress, the novel is inconclusive, commanding all those
who enter here to abandon all hope for happy endings. If the diary ever stops, it is only because the author needs
a breath of life to continue. We have here the first real open work (opera aperta) in the history of the novel, which
covers more than a millennium.
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Unless reading takes the novel seriously, the Desperado work dies.
The Desperado author treats both writing and reading as a game. He flirts with his heroes and his readers
reason, understanding, memory, even with the air of apparent simplicity. The Desperado work may look a piece of
cake, but it is in fact far from being simple. It is the serious game of a very resourceful writer, and cannot survive
in the absence of a suspicious reader. A novel like The Remains of the Day (Ishiguro) toys with the idea of
Englishness, which turns out to be an international air of everyone, everywhere, at most times. The writer is so
resourceful that we hardly realize what his real aim is. Which brings us to our own fault, that of not being
suspicious enough when we first read the novel, because we are in the habit of looking for what previous
traditions had to offer. We must expect what is the unexpected for us. We must surprise ourselves with our
expectations. If anyone stands to gain from this image of the work as a game, it is the reader by all means. He is
educated to thrive on complication. The strategy of the writer postpones understanding: the author teases the
readers relaxed frame of mind when faced with verbal clarity, and underground he builds a prolonged sense of
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4
4. BACK TO SQUARE ONE
Every new book, whether called Desperado or any other name, hopes to come closer to what we feel, to
reality, to the truth, to us. Yet every new convention and this Desperado age abounds in imagination for new
conventions is a more sophisticated degree of abstractization. With writers like Burgess, Lessing, Fowles,
Brownjohn, Bradbury, Gray, Lodge, Barnes, Ackroyd, Amis, Swift, Ishiguro, life is the pretext, fiction is the game.
The roots of Desperado fiction go through the stream of consciousness, and catch at every device ever used.
There is no literary movement so far more technical than the Desperado movement. An author is no longer
satisfied if he differs from another age, he wants to be different from: 1. other authors, and 2. his own previous
books.
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Real time, the concrete time of the Desperado work, the interval during which the plot begins and ends
(stops, rather) and the hero struggles with indecision (too little is clear and certain in such works), is the present.
Like any present, the Desperado present is under various threats. It steals from the pockets of the narrative or the
lyrical approach of the writer a kind of contorted, reversed and very confused chronology. Lessings heroines fall
on all fours, pushed by the story into this confusing present. Ishiguros heroes find themselves floating up in the
air, in a present that devours them, denies them, tears them to pieces. Alasdair Grays Lanark realizes it is time for
him to die. Graham Swifts history teacher suddenly loses his profession, is not a history teacher any more.
Ackroyds heroes are also restless, escape into other bits of time, apparently more auspicious. The heroes of
Barnes, Bradbury and Lodge feed on irony in order to forget that the present is elusive, that real time never lasts
long enough. No present is perceived as a lasting state.
Since the Desperado work is a constant crossing of chronological directions, which are governed as much by
now as by then, mostly ago, real time feeds incessantly on imaginary duration, which, in its turn, breaks and
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author and heroes), while the future is inconclusive, open and never closed. The Desperado present is a ghost
present.
If we make up our minds to find this present, all the same, we find a time peopled by confused heroes, with
confusing stories. The doctor in Flauberts Parrot, whom Julian Barnes makes investigate Flaubert with almost
detective greed, is in fact an unhappy man, who has helplessly witnessed his wifes death, his wife having been the
only woman he loved, while he was by no means the only man in her life, which the doctor very well knows. When
interviewed, authors such as Graham Swift, David Lodge, Alasdair Gray perform a subtle gymnastics of avoiding a
clear-cut statement. In their subconscious, if not otherwise, these writers need the freedom to keep changing.
Their own writing present, the same as their heroes, is chameleonic. They answer enigmatically that life is
enigmatic, that there are answers nowhere, and therefore an author cannot afford to state. The Desperado author
guesses, fumbles within a present which he keeps rejecting, because his narrative strength lies in the past.
Galsworthys heroes were very busy knitting their present, they were constantly besieged by incidents. They had a
past, but this past kept changing according to what each new day might bring. Even Virginia Woolf, despite her
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Artist of the Floating World, by Ishiguro, thinks clear thoughts and is introduced in clear sentences. Confusion
stems from the order in which he brings up and comments on his memories. Only at the very last does he mention
the key-memory, which finally makes it clear why we have disliked him all along, why the book actually accuses
him. A while ago, in the times of Japanese imperialist dreams, he sent to prison a left-wing fellow-painter. Japan is
seen in the novel as submitted to the Americans, the former left-wing convict is now in what used to be Kurodas
shoes, when the famous painter was aspiring to a Japanese empire. The wheel has turned and Kuroda, in his small
present circle of reality in the novel, looks around in astonishment, out of place, apparently just a harmless little
old man now. Not so when he was young and famous, though. The narrator draws the line under all times and
gives a moral verdict. Ishiguros verdict is actually an intransigent one: however free the reader thinks he is to
interpret and rearrange present or past, in the end the author will not allow any other judgment but his. He does
not encourage creative reading. Reading must be careful, observant of every little word. The past detail is carved in
the present discourse. This present discourse, which does not aim at modifying the past, is dominated by a clarity
which imposes itself upon rememoration and (most often indirect) explanation. The clarity of the Desperado style
must by no means be overlooked. The narrative pattern may be exasperating, but the sentences that lead us to it
are crystal clear. The Desperado novel, the Desperado present is apparently accessible. In essence, it is a very hard
nut to crack for the readers memory and ability to put pieces together. This reader is exhausted at the end of a
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Hawksmoor, English Music, Chatterton are all landslides of the present into something else. The narrative opens
with something we are tempted to take for the present of the book, then it dives unexpectedly into previous
centuries, the perfume of the long gone by. The author watches us sink, and this trance of the man whose feet no
longer tread the solid ground is Ackroyds aim in point of narrative craft. Less aggressive, yet essentially to the
same purpose, Alan Brownjohn mixes presents in The Long Shadows and makes us wonder: is this a book within a
book, are these paper heroes or living beings? The border between present and past, however obnubilated, was
there for the stream of consciousness. James, Woolf, Joyce, Eliot, Conrad, and even more so Dickens and
Galsworthy, know exactly when they slip into the past and all this time the present of the work is allowed to go
ahead, slowly, all dressed in memories. To put it plainly, something happens in the present, no matter what.
Desperadoes choose two directions: either something does happen, but, with endless irony, the story is put down
(see Huxley, Orwell, Burgess, Lodge, Bradbury), or the present is annihilated as present (because it cannot change
the future in the slightest), and it becomes a past present, a perfect reenactment (see Ishiguro, Swift, Ackroyd,
Barnes, Lessing, Gray, Ondaatje, Rushdie). More clearly, classical authors write with a future in view, while
Desperadoes refuse to think of the future, unless they project it as a dystopia. The Desperado future withers
precisely because the real present is so faint. The Desperado present is, in conclusion, just a question mark.
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a law of memory that goes deeper than the logic of the narrative. This invading lyricism is old fashioned and not
many authors now give way to it, but Peter Ackroyd, for instance, resorts with ostentation to unpredictable
associations, of thoughts or even of mere words. In Hawksmoor, a chapter ends with a sentence that opens the
very next chapter, the two chapters being situated, by the general narrative pattern of the whole novel, many
centuries apart. As a rule, though, the Desperado author is fond of wakefulness, which urges him to resort to the
diary (see Orwell or Lessing) or to intertextuality (see the trips into other texts in Barnes Flauberts Parrot, Grays
Lanark, Ackroyds English Music). When Lessings heroine wants to dissect the past present, she mentally writes a
page of a diary. It is her way of updating the past, of contaminating the present with past intensity. The author
imagines in reverse, he projects what was into what will never be, and this is the reason why the last page, the end
of a book no longer really matters. The consequences for the reading of such a book are of utmost importance,
mainly because the readers horizon of expectation changes drastically. We find the same refusal of an ending in
the dystopic mood of the Desperado author. Rather than imagine anything taking place in the future, he would
prefer to die, and so he does: he visualizes himself in a negative space, in dystopia. Huxley envisions the fatal
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Shadows), Bradbury (Rates of Exchange), Barnes (The Porcupine). Whatever the mode, the heroes are dislocated
from the present and sent either into the past or into a hostile, half-real now. The Desperado authors dilemma is
which to choose between realism and irony. He ends up using them both, of course, either in order to obliterate,
or to discredit the present, at least.
Under these conditions, uncertain as to how to move into the past without losing his present, his actuality,
the author escapes literary conventions before him, and creates his own convention (more or less new, but that is
of no consequence). Each author struggles free in his or her own way from realistic time, and narrates at his own
pace, in his own mode of rememoration. The past is invested with many values. Some heroes resort to reverie, and
from there to memory, which leads to the core of life. Others stand back from sentimental memory by creating a
rational past. Quite a number of heroes take refuge in uncertainty, not unlike Henry James. Many characters
withdraw into the past only in order to weaken reality, the present. In none of these cases do we find any ordering
of the past, even though this past looks accessible to understanding at first sight. The Desperado past is
dishevelled and lures readers like a swamp. The only one who is allowed to carry the key to this past, who knows
what really happened and when, is the author. This author chooses, however, a neutre stand: he offers the reader
incidents, feeds him narratives, all coming straight from the heros mouth. In this way the author might be trying
to demonstrate to the reader that the novel is being written under his own eyes, with his necessary help, that it is
unimportant if classical narrative (which was totally independent of the reader) self-destroys itself, because it is
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is life itself, and the author can claim no more than be its reporter. In reality, the reins of the narrative are well
hidden somewhere, the convention must be found out. And this is how the novel ceases to be a closure of a
chronological plot in an ending which usually implies the fate and future of a couple. It becomes a convention
hunt, at the end of which no couple, no future awaits, but a reality emptied of all expectations, a hundred percent
real, if we are to believe what Desperado authors claim.
Considering that the author is enigmatic and all explanations come from the past, the hero appears almost
absurdly helpless. The heros memory is in the hands of the narrator and this narrator hands it to the reader
himself. The only action the hero is allowed is rememoration. He does not act, can never object to anything. There
are two kinds of heroes in the Desperado novel: the helpless heroes (see Ishiguro, Lessing, Gray, Swift, Ackroyd,
Huxley, Orwell) and the cocky heroes (see Barnes, Lodge, Bradbury, Fowles). The helpless heroes bear the burden
of rememoration with resignation and some lyricism. The cocky heroes bathe in irony and sarcasm, only to end in
the same place: rememoration. Once in a while, some novel resorts again to classical narration, chronological
causality, but ends up mocking at it, after a breathless race in which nobody wins. John Fowles, for instance,
builds up an unbearable sense of suspense which is never gratified. Chronological narrative is dead, but the
authors past keeps finding new conventions. Because the author cannot part with the past, the Desperado novel
loses even the slightest intention of chronology, the merest semblance even of an ending, the (un)happiness of the
couple, the very idea that a novel/ literature mirrors life in any way. The Desperado author does not create
literature: he claims should we take his words at their face value? that he overcomes all patterns (chronology
included) and creates the very essence of life.
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complicated, but also illogical; the departure from chronological logic, from the structure of the hero and the plot
that relied on a past-present-future axis, creates the post-time of reading. The reader perceives the text as
atemporal, always the same. The Desperado work has a logic of irony and emotion that undermines the need for
chronological causality, freeing reading.
Post-time is, therefore, equivalent to a trusting reading. The readers memory must swallow everything
when the book is first read. No decoding is envisaged, consequently no active reading. What a Desperado requires
is an agglutinating reading. The effort comes after the feast. The reader proves himself in the re-reading. There he
becomes initiated in the post-time. The feeling of post-time comes up when the reader is left with a plot that has
no ending. The hero lives in a post-past, post-present, post-future, all independent from one another. Anything
can come next, we can interpret whatever, however we wish, so interpretation is useless in the end. We prefer to
take the writers word for granted. This is how the Desperado author disarms the critical spirit. Julian Barnes
confessed to me in an interview that he has quit criticism because it did not help him write better. Here are the
roots of an absence: the absence of Desperado criticism. It does not mean that literary criticism has given up. It
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make use of their own biography, but completely deface it in the process of finishing a novel. With poets it is
much more dramatic than that: they completely move the idea of lyricism out of the realm of diary, privacy,
confession, even emotion. They deny the poet the right to make poetry out of autobiographical material. With the
(notable) exception of poets like Ruth Fainlight or Fleur Adcock, poets today clamour they need imagined stories
and masks in order to conjure up emotion. It is another way of showing that lyricism itself has been modified,
from emotion recollected in tranquillity to emotion imagined with indecent directness as an open challenge and
defiance of the reader.
The Desperado is a very private author. Whether obviously lyrical (see Peter Ackroyd, Graham Swift, or even
Julian Barnes in Staring at the Sun), or neuter (like the wonderfully balanced David Lodge, or like Alasdair Gray), or
bitingly humorous (see Malcolm Bradbury), or even worse, bitter (Doris Lessing), all Desperadoes enroll under the
banner of irony. They swear to produce irony and nothing but irony, but deep down, in their souls deprived of all
tradition, homeless and burdened by this avid hysteria of novelty, they fear their own irony and, more than that,
they are scared to death they might have taught the reader an attitude that may well put them out of business. A
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in something as serious as their ironical novels), but the devices whether for fiction or poetry are few and can
hardly be changed in any way. One can either accept or reject them. There is no fooling around with the readers
need for a story, characters or lyricism and confession. Fiction and poetry have created plots and heroes and
emotions confessed in tranquillity for at least two millennia now. Eliot, Joyce and Woolf were the first to realize
time had come for a change. They talked a lot (and did less) to impose a new pattern on literature. Woolf rejected
the traditional novel theoretically (Modern Fiction), but, when we have finished reading her own novels, we realize
they reform in our minds in the very pattern she rejected. Mrs Dalloway is remembered as a traditional story told
in fits. On the other hand, if we deny Joyce his main discovery, which is preverbal thought forced into words, his
Ulysses is lost. Had Joyce continued, though, preverbalizing, so to speak, the novel might have died. The only one
whose discovery created followers was Eliot, whose poetry of the disgusting and of mockery struck gold. Eliots
idiom so much criticized at the time The Waste Land was written has become a commonplace, a point to start
from for contemporary poets. I should say Eliot was revolutionary in a creative way. While after Joyce and Woolf
novelists had to run back to a well-told story unless they wanted to lose their audience altogether, Eliots bitter
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more unusual the incidents imagined are, the crazier and the more baffling, the more Desperado they will be.
There is no limit to this isolation of the writer in his own independence from tradition, his desired uniqueness of
purpose and of tools.
The ambitions of a Desperado are many. First of all, he must be different at all costs. Second, he will do
anything to secure the readers approval. Third, he constantly tries to be deeper than depth itself. Fourth, he
hopes he can manage to be clear in complication. Fifth, he feels he can be chummy with his reader, yet in control
of the latters reaction to the text. In short, the Desperado Dream is to be the writer, to achieve instant and
constant success.
As for the actual relationship between East and West, we can talk about a real Iron Curtain in Desperado
literature between 1950-1990. During that time, the West was both repelled by and fascinated with the East. From
Orwell to Huxley, Burgess (Honey for the Bears), Lessing (The Golden Notebook), Bradbury (Rates of Exchange),
Barnes (The Porcupine), Brownjohn (The Long Shadows), Greene (The Human Factor), western writers kept probing
what was going on behind the curtains of communism. The East, on the other hand, had two choices: either to
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to fool censorship in some way, and he sometimes did that by placing an inscription at the end of the poem to the
effect that it had been written while the poet was visiting New York, and he described the evils of capitalism.
People starving, dressed in rags, deprived of any news from abroad, cut off from the whole universe, made to work
and eat and sleep only, these horrors could only happen in a Western country, where the state could not care less
about man and the regime was certainly inhuman. Actually it was a faithful description of the tragedy that went on
under communism, and all the readers perceived that at once, but since no words labelled that clearly, the censor
could ignore it (if he was bright) or even failed to notice (although few censors were stupid). The Desperado
freedom, therefore, had a remarkable counterpart in communist countries: it was the stolen freedom, the
would-be freedom, which had to be won inch by inch, by shrewd literary subterfuges. It was, for communist
countries, more a kind of resourcefulness and ingenuity than freedom. Actually, to set matters straight, it was
political bondage skillfully avoided by literary artifice. From that point of view, East and West are similar: both end
in literary artifice, although it happens for different reasons.
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Seen from the East, the iron curtain was dumb and frustrating. The official thesis was that communism was
the best and the West had to be reviled. While everybody thought the very opposite, even party officials, nobody
(or hardly anyone) stated openly an opposition. Sneaky hints were the most the system would allow. When
Romanians read Marin Preda, Augustin Buzura or Marin Sorescu, they invariably looked for the hidden lizards (as
they were called) slippery expressions of dissent, which could be read between the lines and which managed to
avoid the censors vigilance. The universe of communist books, however rebellious they might have been, could
only take the shape of a forbidden paradise. The literature of the East was all about inaccessibility, the forbidden
heaven and the supreme daring (defection, emigration the impossible dream).
There was a forbidden connection between East and West, though: radio Free Europe, smuggled books or
films, foreign visitors. Seen from the West, this must have seemed unimportant, since, as a Romanian saying goes,
the man who has just eaten will not believe anyone can starve. Some books those considered harmless to the
regime were translated and widely read. This was the fate of John Fowles in Romania. The same holds true for
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Essence. Dystopia did not begin as a political species. Even a writer like Jonathan Swift, who was extremely
politically minded, created his country of the Houyhnhnms from a philosophical stand. Golding did the same in
Lord of the Flies. Since a dystopia is a reversal of what is good and beautiful, meaning the most undesirable place
one would want to find oneself in, it was natural that Desperado writers should see it embodied in the communist
space, which was the ultimate torture of the essential human being. Not all Desperadoes who described their
incursions into communism perceived the essence of it, though. Each one had a point to make, a limited view, so
to say. Burgess was highly alert to the menace of communism in Honey for the Bears. Graham Greene enjoyed the
action, the spying flavour, in his The Human Factor, where he described an English spy ending up in the Soviet
Union, cut off from the rest of the world for what was left of his life; there was no way back from the communist
hell, in Greenes view. Lessings The Good Terrorist is only one side of Lessings dystopic inclination, the political
one. There is also a philosophical one in The Fifth Child and Ben, in the World, and a more scientifically biassed
apprehension in The Memoirs of a Survivor, where she deals more with the material crisis of present civilisation.
Politically speaking, in The Golden Notebook Lessing sends a British teacher of history and member of the British
communist party to the Soviet Union, where he realizes that nothing he imagined about communism was true.
What most Desperadoes perceive right about the communist regime is the huge lie it was. Malcolm Bradbury
humorously recoiled from the enormity of this lie in Rates of Exchange. Something similar, with comic undertones
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son of a well known musician and friend. The envoys of communism to Britain, whom Lessing depicts in The Good
Terrorist, are ruthless and scary. Many writers escaped from communist countries and found a home in the West.
Such are George Szirtes (who was taken across the border while he was a child), Nabokov in the United States,
Solzhenitsyn, Norman Manea, Andrei Codrescu, Nina Cassian, Matei Calinescu, Virgil Nemoianu, Thomas Pavel (the
last six from Romania). Displacement is sometimes the direct effect of the iron curtain. It exists both in reality and
fiction: Desperadoes can be displaced authors or often create displaced heroes, running away from their inhuman
homeland, and making it or losing the battle in the West. A symbol of material and intellectual freedom for the
East, the West finds the scenes behind the iron curtain picturesque and comfortably alien.
The appeal of communism to Western countries has never ceased to amaze those who experienced it in their
own lives. Lessing creates two heroines who grow disenchanted with the British communist party, but that implies
they were enthusiastic about it at one time. Lessing herself, while a young mother in South Africa, left two small
children in the care of her husband, in order to better the world. She explains in the first volume of her
autobiography (Under My Skin):
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I explained to them that they would understand later why I had left. I was going to change this ugly world,
they would live in a beautiful and perfect world where there would be no race hatred, injustice, and so forth.
The mirage of utopia turns bitter, though, and Anna Wolf, just like Molly, her friend in communism and after
it, scuttle away under the roof of good old capitalism. The experiment hurt two children in the case of the novelist
herself, but it hurt infinitely more in the actual communist countries. If readers who have experienced
totalitarianism can read Orwell without resentment, accept ironic trips behind the iron curtain (Burgess, Huxley,
Bradbury, Barnes) in a pensive mood, rather sadly, they hardly find it in their hearts (if at all) to forgive infatuation
with a system that has crushed them. When Alan Brownjohn wrote The Long Shadows he was unspeakably careful
not to hurt those already maimed lives, and his image of Romania under communism and emerging out of it is
uniquely appealing, comforting even to a native of communism, so to say. Like all natives of a geographical area,
natives of communism feel they have the privilege of one who knows best and should be an authority in the
matter. They resent aliens teaching them. And western writers are aliens as far as communism is concerned. The
iron curtain operated drastically here. It separated the two worlds perfectly. Again, Alan Brownjohn is the only one
who was able to write a discreet and warm text about a reality he came to share though never know for sure, and
whose novel on Romania would not offend any Romanian reader.
Most books written in the West about the iron curtain hide awe behind a veil of irony. This is often perceived
at the level of language distortion, a mishandling of English. Bradbury is the master of such flashes of laughter (A
Dialogi is the great spirit of amity and concorde. >Dialogi= means the desire for true intercurse B an intercurse
where each partner is an equal and no one is on top!@). Speakers of English under communism are either spoilt by
the regime or rebels. Both categories are sadly out of practice as contact with foreigners and speaking English to
natives is strongly discouraged. Communism was a closed, stifling world. The mistakes recorded by Bradbury with
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text in a mist of angelic utopia. This is one good reason why Doris Lessing, such a refined intellectual and an
intense writer, is hard to be forgiven by a writer whose very words were taken away from him in the name of a
utopia she chose to embrace. In simpler words, mockingly, as Bradbury would have done, one mans meat is
another mans poison.
Comparing a communist novel or poem to a western work, we can easily notice a distortion of human
nature, in two cases: when the East writes about man, man is the best possible creature in the world (the positive
hero) or the anti-communist retrograde (the negative hero); when the West writes, man is his old self, varied and
unpredictable. Unpredictability was stolen by censorship from the East. Communist heroes had to be simple
people who saw the light, or intellectuals who learned the beautiful philosophy of workers/ peasants. This is
somewhat simplistic, though, because rarely as it happened some good novelist (like Marin Preda) or some
good poet (like Marin Sorescu) managed to bend the rules, winking at the reader from between the lines. A young
man could be a dissident while thinking of the West in the middle of a party meeting, an old man could simply
remember the charm of youth (his youth having been spent before the communist takeover) and become a rebel
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In many novels written on the western side of the iron curtain, a western tourist finds himself, out of
curiosity, belief or by chance, in a communist country (Honey for the Bears, by Burgess, The Golden Notebook
only a fragment by Lessing, Staring at the Sun only a small fragment, again by Barnes, Rates of Exchange by
Bradbury, The Long Shadows by Brownjohn). In most cases, with the exception of Brownjohn, who visited Romania
time and again and came to understand part of the code, these tourists fail to take in communist everyday reality.
They are naive and feel left out, choosing to sulk and go back home. Displacement, estrangement, alienation from
the human beings on the other side of the iron curtain haunt the heroes who pluck up the courage to go and see
for themselves. Lessings heroine remembers going to East Germany with her second partner (when East Germany
was a communist country) and being attacked by old friends turned communist now, with aggressive accusations
of coming to advertise the material well-being of the West (The Golden Notebook). These intruders in the
communist world fail to communicate with the people they meet there, and it is not only because English is learnt
more like a dead language than a spoken one under communism. They fail to communicate because they are
totally unprepared to perceive lack of freedom and distortion of human nature under the yoke of utopia put into
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unless he had had in mind a crisis of civilization. Even that was mostly done in the West about the West. As for the
iron curtain seen from both sides, that is a utopia in itself. The iron curtain can only be understood from the East
and misunderstood, but dreaded, from the West.
III. Desperadoes and the Iron Curtain
Eastern Desperadoes used to be either exiles or refugees in their own country. We shall focus here on the
good writers, as the bad writers, who compromised with the system and wrote its apology were no writers at all:
they were the worst kind of politician that ever was. The good writers who defected or not very often, but it
happened were pushed away by the regime (see Solzhenitsyn) either reached fame again not very often, yet it
still happened or became mere citizens of a country where life was economically more agreeable. Some came
back to their country after the fall of communism. They became very proud of their dissidence and claimed the
status of a hero. Some were recognized as such, others made friends with the communist remnants of the old
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The communist Desperado had to revive the code, which withered very quickly and was found out, had to be
replaced, so that censorship could be delayed again. Escaping official propaganda, wooden language and the
immense mass of forbidden literary tools led to an inevitable complication. This was one Desperado strategy
which, in the case of the
East, had political origins.
If eastern writers under communism could not read contemporary western authors unless the books were
smuggled, or considered harmless to the system and translated, they invented (at least Romanians did) a term for
self-sufficiency: protochronism. Communist culture some argued did not need to synchronize because it was
better than synchronic, it was the very essence, the independent prototype of culture everywhere. Socialism could
recreate the universe without the help of a God or human race at large. Communism could exist all alone. The
books written in this environment were shouts of despair and feats of resourcefulness. The main refuge of writers
was the history of literature dead centuries had not been forbidden yet and this is how it happened that, while
a student of English, at only nineteen years of age, I found in my compulsory bibliography for the literature course
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World (one of the worst dystopias that communism ever inspired). I read them with a feeling of victory, which
came back whenever a really good Romanian novel by a dissenter was published: if someone else shared my
revolt, I was not alone, there was hope. This is exactly what the western Desperado was doing in the West at about
the same time: trying to reassure the reader that Joyce and Eliot would not come back, that literature was so
accessible that it could be enjoyed again. What both western and eastern writers avoided to show was the
complication of this new accessibility, the deviousness that the new code of simplicity implied. Out of totally
different reasons (the West literary, the East political mainly, but not only), literature assumed an appearance of
simplicity which hid iron codes. The code meaning imagination, after all was stronger than ever. The difference
for the West was that is swerved from Modernist obscurity, and for the East that it had to veil itself in harmless
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4. The touristic view of a communist country as a picturesque hell: Bradburys Rates of Exchange and Burgess
Honey for the Bears, the small inkling of China in Barnes Staring at the Sun describe the chaos, the comic mask of
the unfathomable social, political, economic evil that communism might mean, but which the western heroes do
not understand. They mock at everything that scares them and scurry away. Once back, the feeling is that home
has never been sweeter, however many tragedies may be going on there. There is no worse tragedy than being
lost and never again allowed out of a communist country one made the mistake to visit out of sheer curiosity.
5. Communism seen as Dracula land and its innocent western prey: the violence imagined by A Clockwork Orange
and The Memoirs of a Survivor, the torture in 1984 are a spectre of the communist vampire sucking the blood of
capitalist peacefulness. The writer whose wife is raped and manuscript destroyed in A Clockwork Orange, the
author of the mental memoirs, the survivor in The Memoirs of a Survivor, the British writer in love with
Brownjohns beautiful heroine and translator, are all preys to beings who, they think, can harm them and actually
do, in one way or another. The harm is not lethal, but maiming. The fear is grounded, they all seem to say.
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6. Economic shortages within communism make the western reader exclaim, Long live capitalism, because we are
so right! Orwells 1984 is ample proof of how horrible communism can be: no food, no clothes, no love, no
privacy, no humanity left. Wrong theory. There may be very little of the material comfort capitalism so prides itself
on, but humanity is there all right, and if the writers on the west side of the iron curtain never notice it, never
suspect it (not even Doris Lessing in her autobiography), it is their loss. Eastern heroes, however encoded, rigid,
apparently politically correct but deep down bitter dissenters, are every bit as human as their western
counterparts, and sometimes more.
7. Humour and awe are the only approaches of communism in the West. Laughter and fear, comedy and tragedy.
Since in modern times they can hardly be separated, the image is inevitably superficial and unconvincing.
8. Usually the free to travel westerner meets the eastern slave bound to his land. This breeds another fear, that of
being trapped, which all dystopias are based on. Lanark is trapped in his own life, which becomes dystopic and he
dies there; Goldings Ralph is bound to the island dominated by Lord of the Flies and is saved by the grown-ups;
Bradburys professor runs away from Slaka only to find out that he did not understand anything of the rites of the
land while he was there. The dystopic world, whether the iron curtain is political or of another nature, longs for
liberation. The iron curtain is a trap, a lack of freedom, a slavery to nightmare, a destruction of the hope for
freedom.
9. The western guest is constantly amazed at the perverted language, thought, freedom, humanity: in short he is
amazed at the prevalent lie. Here, at least, westerners go to the heart of the matter. Communism is a lie, and,
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easterner is or looks like a puppet with no choice in the matter. This puppet, however, has the huge,
revigorating resource of dissent, and learns to create its own universe as it lives along.
The Desperado age has thus two political sides, the right and the wrong side of the iron curtain, but the
result reached is eventually the same. The West hides ambiguity in the cloak of accessibility; literature is fighting
for its audience and regains it all right, although the hidden sophistication is beginning these days to tire the
readers. The East is forced to use primitive words and struggles very hard to hide ambiguity behind the simplest
sentences. Both West and East express an imprecision, both do it in clear language. The difference is that in the
East one has to read between the lines or else all meaning is lost. The West reads, visits, hears about the East, but
fails to read into words the political torture of the compulsion to lie. Lying is, however, a form of ambiguity, too.
Especially if the author can instil doubt in his readers mind. Western readers are in no position to doubt eastern
writers. The reverse would not be true. If there is an iron curtain in literature, therefore, it certainly is one of
misunderstanding. Where politics failed, it turns out that literature was no help, either.
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Darkness. Lawrences heroes grapple with a private hell of inexplicable impulse. James hopes for justice and
fairness in a crooked world whose only hope is the mind of his heroes, which switches the plot of the novel from
the incident to verbalization (meaning statement and understatement) of the act. Speculation and decoding are
stream of consciousness practices. Between lines, between words, there lies a meaning that has to be followed
closely and unmasked.
Modernism melted the hero into the effort of expressing him. The living being evaporated into words, and
the word was the absolute beginning of the world, it was light and it was life. It was both God and His creation.
The Desperado age reclaims the right of the hero to be flesh and blood. The word is still important because it
must be remembered, because, if forgotten, it can become an obstacle to the understanding of the whole book.
The hero leads a real life and the Desperado author prides himself on having brought the novel back to reality.
What he does not admit is that the life of the hero reaches us through his memory, via his mind. An Artist of the
Floating World (Ishiguro) has a palpable story, on the one hand: we learn that the hero was a painter who
supported the imperialist campaign, thus indirectly bringing the atomic bomb onto Japan, and in the process he
sent to jail another fellow painter who saw things differently. But the truth comes to us filtered by the artists
mind, and we take a while to wind our souls away from him and give the book the chance of a second, detached
reading. The second time round, the charm no longer blinds us and we see the ugly reality for what it is, and we
notice every little detail, every word apparently uttered at random, actually very significant in the construction of
the novel (such as suicide, which suggests the artists unavowed sense of guilt at having brought the bomb and
ensuing defeat and poverty onto his country). The Desperado hero has learnt from the modernist hero that he
must be a mind above all, but he refuses to leave his body behind. Clarissa Dalloway was a breeze of memories
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To the future or to the past, to a time when thought is free, when men are different from one another and
do not live alone to a time when truth exists and what is done cannot be undone:
From the age of uniformity, from the age of solitude, from the age of Big Brother, from the age of double
think greetings!
Lawrence Durrells Alexandria Quartet is a mixture of diaries. Doris Lessing writes The Golden Notebook relying
heavily upon the idea of life as a daily business that does not exist until it is put down to paper. Desperado writing
is actually the recording of the daily ordeal. No Desperado hero is ever light-hearted or happy. Fowles does not
resort to a diary so much, but the ordeal and the daily ratio of frustration is always there. He places a diary at the
core of his Collector, but that diary is just a dead memory of youth, an impossible return. Other heroes, in novels
by Barnes, Ishiguro, Gray, Bradbury, Lodge live from day to day, even though they do not write down their
experiences. The diary is their own memory, which records patiently. It is a disabused recording, hopeless and
helpless. Ackroyd derives some power from his lyricism and escapes into other texts, other stories, the same as
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Joyce, Woolf, Conrad expected something to happen to them and close the novel, even though the stream of
consciousness refused to express that expectation. Whether put into words or not, the novel had a closure. The
Desperado novel is confusing for those readers who expect the old pattern, because expectation is forbidden
these days. What are the expectations of Winston Smith, Justine, Anna Wulf, Alex, Charles, Oliver, Stevens, Lanark,
Robyn Penrose, Hawksmoor, John Self, Tom Crick (all heroes of the previously mentioned Desperado novelists)? All
the heroes Lessing ever created lived in and for the present, enduring the burden of futurelessness. Fowless
heroes struggle with the need for suspense which the expectation of a happy ending might fulfill, but they are
denied that happy ending and are left with the suspense, which in Fowless case is unbearable (just like the denial
of all expectations, which is not only deliberate but also worked into a famous device by now see the famous
scene of the author looking at himself while facing his hero:
Now the question I am asking, as I stare at Charles...: what the devil am I going to do with you? I have
already thought of ending Charles' career here and now; of leaving him for eternity on his way to London. But the
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explanation) alone and empty, a Japanese painter loses his hour of glory and for a minute even wonders if he
would not be better off committing suicide, an English butler is unable to enjoy even the remains of a day he has
wilfully missed, a pianist cannot make sense of absurd reality (and that reality actually is absurd, Kafkaesque, or in
the South American vein), a detective fails to find the meaning of life. Five novels describe five failures, or rather,
mental recordings of the inability to use the freedom the author allows the hero. Where Ulysses, David
Copperfield, the Forsytes struggled and won or lost, the Desperado heroes merely endure. They do not even wait.
They simply are. Resignation to the present is the Desperado heros lot.
The charm of the Desperado hero
Peter Ackroyd told in an interview, The mind is the soul. This answer explains the charm of the Desperado
hero. Although incident-addicted, although besieged with constant action, never reduced to the mere birth of his
words (as Joyce did, or Eliot), the Desperado hero is a mind within a soul, which means to say all his recorded
experiences turn lyrical at a certain point, and he becomes a huge poem. An enormous amount of incidents is
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before there has been any time for anyone to react. Desperado heroes are inert. If they do anything, it is to charm
the reader by appealing to his love, sympathy, approval. Desperado novels are not about energetic achievers and
settled plots. They are all about the readers sharing and caring. Once we identify with the hero, the author rests
his case and the sentence no longer matters. The mind is the soul has won: the writers mind has enslaved us to
his soul, we feel and understand at the same time. Joyce, Woolf and Eliot dreamed this hybridization of poetry and
fiction would happen, but it never came true for them. The Desperadoes win us over more than the stream of
consciousness technique, because they turn a device into a mood, the Desperado mood of identifying with the
written page till we can no longer see the difference, we are the page.
The technicalities of the Desperado hero
We can only understand the Desperado meaning if we memorize every little word on the page. There is no
knowing which word will come in handy and when. The stream of consciousness devised the recurrent image, the
idiosyncratic word, the word loaded with psychological revelations. No such thing for Desperado authors. Every
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Ishiguro plans his key words carefully. Other writers dash down details, and words are not so loaded with
symbolism. Barnes fills Flauberts Parrot with random remarks, which prevent all understanding of what is going
on in case they are ignored by rapid reading. Eliot made much noise around his famous recurrent images (the
objective correlatives), such as the sea, the garden, water, the yew tree, etc. The Desperadoes prefer the
unobtrusive. They sneak into the text and watch us rushing where angels fear to tread. We are the fools if we
ignore the least word, the least remark. Lanark is a mass of details that seem to be unimportant, but which we go
on reading nevertheless. They do not build a code, it is no longer the time of ciphers. They mass together and
create a mountain of recorded incidents. With Desperadoes, unlike the stream of consciousness, it is more a
matter of quantity than quality. The word and this is the major Desperado technicality need not be exemplary,
but suggestive in itself. With Joyce, Woolf, Eliot, the word created its system of reference. It triggered the
mechanism of decoding and it set the reader on the right track, helping him to unveil the authors plan. The
Desperadoes also have a plan. It is hard to conceive of a work without a plan, unless we are talking about a bad
work. The difference between stream of consciousness and Desperado authors is that the plan was a hidden
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heroes directness is equivalent to the stress placed on the present. The direct line running between reader and
hero, with or without the authors voice in between (Lodge, Bradbury, Gray, Swift, Lessing use third person
narrative, while very few use first person direct address), is the best proof that the hero has come back to life, that
Desperado novels may have learned from the stream of consciousness technically, but have devised a whole new
soul of their own to match their minds. For the stream of consciousness, the mind was the main delight, newly
found and avidly explored. The Desperadoes bring back the old novel of the soul, but do not really go back to the
old tradition of writing it: they achieve a simultaneity, an identification of feeling and technique, and they conclude
just like Peter Ackroyd, The mind is the soul.
II. The Heros Past
In regular novels, the present uses the past, and the future uses the present. Eventually past and present
serve the future. David Copperfield uses his past to build a present and we constantly wait to see what is going to
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the nineteenth century, writers had grown tired of what was going to happen next, and were already looking for a
new focus, whether they wrote in the old picaresque manner or invented new approaches. The future was losing
ground in favour of a prolonged present.
In Desperado novels, the present drags its feet, and the future never matters. The real power is in the past.
This past is a drug which benumbs the present into sleep. The hero does nothing but remember, and the past
entrances him, makes him discover all sorts of tricks of memory: from hazard (realism) to psychoanalysis (stream
of consciousness). The delights of memory are mixed with the joy of the present in Alexandria Quartet, and the
plot is very much alive, but governed by the perspective of the past upon the future. It does not matter so much
what is happening now, as long as the future can be seen in many colours, all of them mirrors of one image of the
past or another. To Lawrence Durrell, past incidents are the key and the God. Fowless present reconsiders the
past constantly and lives by this retrospection. The Collector, The French Lieutenants Woman, Daniel Martin, The
Magus, all live by repeated meditations on the past. Something that happened haunts Fowless present, and is
turned in the heros mind over and over again, till a spark of present action shines and the plot advances one step.
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History of the World in 10 Chapters), so his past is not even individual. Ishiguros The Unconsoled drowns in
past memories that never manage to connect, thus creating an absurd text, whose meaning is rather an undermeaning, a guess, a mood. The Remains of the Day feeds on a complicated order of revealing memories, just like
An Artist of the Floating World. Ishiguros present is minimal. Its sap rises in the plot from what was lost, or, as
Eliot put it, In memory only, reconsidered passion (Gerontion). Actually, more than Virginia Woolf in her Modern
Fiction, we find Eliots verse unwillingly theorizing on the future of the novel, on Desperado techniques, on the
sleepiness of the present and the poignancy of the past.
Since the present is so slow and deprived of the thrill of expectation, the only exacerbated suspense
comes from the order in which past incidents are recollected. Lanark, An Artist of the Floating World, Waterland,
Hawksmoor are just a few examples. Even Ishiguros latest novel, When We Were Orphans, relies heavily on the
value of recorded incidents reinterpreted in a confused present. It is not the present which is the guiding light of
the past, but the past which reinvents the present. Joyce made the mind analyse itself in the present. Bloom
dissected the way his present thoughts slipped from a pre-verbal to a verbal state, the way a thought came into
being, the way a word was born out of innumerable associations of languages, ideas, emotions, the way a text was
actually written. Joyce indirectly analysed the process of writing a text, and gave it the body of his heroes. The
stream of consciousness was more thesis than practice, and when it came to practice, it was rather a struggle with
tradition than a victory over it. Desperadoes reach a step farther, they make the order of memory the essence, the
tyrant of Desperado technique.
Whether it shapes the plot (The Remains of the Day, Waterland) or haunts an active present (Lessing,
Fowles), memory is the man. Apparently, Lessing, Lodge, Bradbury, Amis, Barnes write in and only about the
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changed, had become void. The Desperado heroes are still amazingly angry, from Lessing to Burgess, Fowles,
Barnes, Ishiguro, Gray, Amis, Swift. Anger is a face of memory, we might say. What cannot be remembered hurts,
and very few memorable things happen in this Desperado present:
... innumerable atoms; and as they fall, as they shape themselves into the life of Monday or Tuesday, the accent
falls differently from of old; the moment of importance came not here but there; so that, if a writer were a free
man and not a slave, if he could write what he chose, not what he must, if he could base his work upon his own
feeling and not upon convention, there would be no plot, no comedy, no tragedy, no love interest or
catastrophe... (Modern Fiction, Virginia Woolf, 1919).
The sentence does not ring true for Woolfs own novels. The Waves hangs from the lips of the future, has love
interest written all over it, is deeply tragic, stamped by inner catastrophes. But Woolfs statement describes the
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mock at the idea of an interview or at literary criticism, and, behind their irony, insecurity looms. Others are simply
modest, likable and tolerant of any questions (Gray, Lodge, Swift, Ackroyd). In both cases, the reader is perceived
as a threat.
The reason why the reader is perceived as a threat that must be propitiated by all means is directly
connected to the major difference between the Desperado age and the rest of the literary ages (stream of
consciousness included). In most texts, the past is crammed inside the hero, the story, the author: the reader is
invited to challenge the text and conquer the meaning. Dickens, for instance, was an extrovert, delighted at the
so-called independence of his heroes from him. He received letters from readers, begging for the happy fate of
one hero or another. His imagination ran wild and made its own rules. His inspiration was self-assured and
considered itself master of writing and reading. The Desperado hero, on the other hand, the same as the
Desperado author, is deeply dependent on the reader/ critics caring. Tom Jones was alive whether the reader
approved of him or not. Galsworthys characters are themselves and we can understand them all psychologically
speaking, which bitterly questions Galsworthys separation from the stream of consciousness , even though we
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The Desperado present is sleepy and confused. John the Savage (Brave New World) cannot find his bearings
and commits suicide, which is his only action after the exclamation O brave new world!, which comes from
Shakespeare and ends in the fifth millennium, by Huxleys standards. Simon and Ralph (Lord of the Flies) almost
die because the mob of hungry, cruel children need to kill and eat; killing is Goldings major concern. The plot
illustrates it by the mere helplessness of the present versus the fierce instincts surviving from the past, haunting
the hunters, sacrificing Piggy, the true friend, and Simon, who finally understands who the Beast and the Lord
of the Flies are. Lessings heroines see so much going on that their minds give in. Anna Wulf (The Golden
Notebook) is overwhelmed by the fear she is going mad which means confusion stifles her and it is a different
kind of lunacy from the theatrical disarray of Eliots heroes in The Waste Land, but the feeling of lost bearings
starts with him all right. Alex (A Clockwork Orange) does nothing but killing or the next best to it and giving up
violence is his only real act in Burgesss novel. Actually he abandons violence because he is trying to have a family
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Were Orphans), the plot suffers, looks more superficial and the text is qualified as a detective novel, which it is
not; it is merely a plot with a plan, and many of his readers have already read novelists who are better at the
realistic game than Ishiguro. Lanark crosses the night of his adventures with no feelings at all; he is constantly
puzzled, and the reader is discouraged from any attempt at understanding. He dies with the same empty heart as
he had started, and even the realistic part of the novel, which describes his past in a real city, with real incidents
and real people, is monotonously lifeless. The whole novel is, to my mind (although the author states he meant to
amuse and engross the reader in adventures), a huge metaphor for the idea of growing old. It has the ageing
mood written all over it, the lack of passion and the loss of expectation. If it comes to that, in fact, all Desperado
novels are novels of old age. The romance of youth is not part of their authors charm or intention. When Eliot
called Yeats pre-eminently the poet of middle age, he meant to say that Yeats desperately wanted to stay young
and made a show of his losing battle with life. Desperadoes go very gentle into that good night, they do not
rage (Dylan Thomas), they do not even object. Tom Crick (Waterland) and Hawksmoor advance through their
lives, mixed with the past as they come, as in a dream of powerlessness. All these heroes minds seem threatened
by a madness of memory and they try to relieve it in the present by simply diminishing the importance of all
incidents.
The incident-addicted Desperado hero is in fact past-addicted (all meaningful incidents belong to the past)
because the present plot would be nothing without its past echoes. Even for the plots that do move in the present
there is a past scaffolding or a past explanation. Hawksmoor would be nothing without his past counterpart, with
whom he melts into a final lyrical symbol of picturesque, ambivalent evil. When We Were Orphans would not exist
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The Golden Notebook is also a book of the present, but once more it feeds on a diary recording the past, and even
more than that, it proves that the present cannot win precisely because of past failures. Anna Wulf loses both her
love and her belief in communism, and the present world makes no sense. She adapts to the system, replaces
belief in communism by belief in capitalism (or at least tries to), looks for another affair, but she feels utterly
confused and really sees no way out. Expectation is on fire and only ashes survive. These Desperado heroes pay
the price of their infatuation with the past. The English Patient, on the contrary, resorts to the past in order to
bring life to the present, but Ondaatje, just like Salman Rushdie (Midnights Children) has the Indian gift for storytelling, and the situation is somewhat different from Waterland, for instance. Graham Swift, the same as Ishiguro
(Japanese as he may have been born), Ackroyd or Lessing, creates a present that would starve to death without the
crumbs of the past, while Ondaatje and Rushdie conjure up a past that needs a present to feed. In both cases,
whether the present or the past is stronger, they cannot exist separately, as successive moments in time. In both
cases there is a simultaneity of wisdom (the past) and confusion (the present), which makes life look like a future
building which is right now, at the time of reading, a past scaffolding for a present dark room. The real project will
only be seen clearly when rereading brings a faint light to the text. The effect is that the reader becomes insecure,
uncertain of the power of his memory, and incident-addiction turns into an addiction to an eternal simultaneity
with the past.
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Magus is uselessly but charmingly confusing, Lanark is a delightfully untrue nightmare (dystopia), Barnes waters
an emotional dryness with witticism (statement which does not hold true for his very sentimental Staring at the
Sun). This confrontation of techniques (the technique of the expectant present, which is the essence of fiction till
the twentieth century, versus the technique of past flashes flooding all time) shows the roots of Desperado
complication. Unable to build a present any more, Desperadoes take refuge in the past, in the mind (this is the
lesson of the stream of consciousness), and renew this device by imposing upon the past an ulterior/ present
motivation. We go backwards in novels like An Artist of the Floating World, which changes the past, while the
present is immovable. If we may say so, the Desperado author grafts expectation upon the trunk of the past and
only rereading can show the young buds coming out. Reading concentration on the present, which actually leads
nowhere is insufficient, deficient. Rereading is far from repetition of the first time round: it is the real beginning
of the text in the readers mind. The author holds out his hand. It is up to us to take it or fail to enjoy Desperado
literature.
The moods imposed by this view of fictional time are two. The present gets irony, the past gets lyricism.
Comedy and poetry mingle. The present may be ironical, humorous, but it is never merry or happy: it is slowed
down by a burden of past pain and the fact that the future is at most an apprehension does not help, either. There
is not much suspense in the present: there is only an uninteresting flow of common incidents, which do not
require emotional involvement from the reader. The caring is all for the past. The present is loveless both for
heroes and for the readers. Can that be the mood Virginia Woolf was dreaming of in 1919? She talked about the
absence of plot, love interest, catastrophe. The present consequently lost its livelihood. It used to be so well built
and enticing, but no more. In the third millennium, because of a hyperactive past (which floods the narrative in all
possible guises), the present is devitalized. The novel has indeed survived, but for how long?
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unimportant. It is consequently mentioned in passing from the very beginning, as one of the many commonplaces
of the present. As an extension of the present, which it can still be, the future holds no promise, it is blank. No
Desperado hero, from Huxley to Golding, Orwell, Durrell, Lessing, Burgess, Fowles, Barnes, Ishiguro, Gray,
Bradbury, Lodge, Ackroyd, Amis, Swift is ever excited by the future or looks forward to it. Some authors fight the
happy ending with dystopia (Huxley, Orwell, Golding, Lessing, Gray, Burgess, Barnes), others merely produce
disenchanted tales (Fowles, Ishiguro, Lodge, Bradbury, Amis, Swift). The fairy tale tradition has at last died for
good. The best illustration is Lawrence Durrells Alexandria Quartet, which is wildly charming and picturesque, but
which self-destructs because the thirst for too many endings kills the readers interest in any ending at all. The
seducing Justine ends old and forgotten, and we almost feel rage at the end of a captivating novel that explodes in
our faces. Too many mirrors (Justine sees herself in several mirrors at once, this being the key metaphor defining
the technique of the novel) confuse and eventually kill all expectation. Lawrence Durrell shows best how the death
of the fairy tale can kill the joy of reading. What else is there to be added, than, Desperadoes, beware ?
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we see time travellers do in cheap novels and especially films. The novel is preparing for an arduous journey into
the unknown. It has conscientiously abolished plot, love interest, closure, chronological causality and the thirst for
a pacifying future. There is only one small matter left: Will the reader board such a book?
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The first step of this denial was the hybridization of literary genres. Writers refuse to view genres as
independent from one another and mix them indiscriminately, amalgamating fiction, poetry, drama, literary
criticism and psychology within the same text. This is how Virginia Woolfs poetical novels were born, although her
novels are not the best illustration of denial, in spite of her being the ideologist of this denial; her novels do not
actually escape the tyranny of previous conventions. Once we have finished reading Woolfs novels, their episodes,
whose order is complicated with sophistication, change their place in the mind of the reader and they take a
course which follows precisely the two principles that Woolf hates: chronology and love interest. The writers who
really escape traditional literature the old idea of literature and bring new meaning both to writing and reading,
are Joyce and Eliot. They consider literature in a mood which is not new but which becomes predominant from
there on: they mainly focus on irony.
This irony is aimed at what literature meant till the stream of consciousness. Joyce reworks The Odyssey in
his own manner, and Eliot writes a poem which, for the first time in the history of poetry, quotes innumerable lines
from numberless authors, changing, defacing them, from mere words to their very meaning, which is so often
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burden of solitude to the readers soul. Realism was the image of reality, it aimed at being its X-ray. Once the
thought is haunted to its pre-verbal stage, the social dimension no longer comes first, and it becomes much less
than real, it is mere imagination. Reality is somewhere in the mind of the hero, in a labyrinth of his words which
surface disorderly in the text. It becomes far more important to verbalize with the hero than to share his real life.
Which does not mean at all that we do not share his life. The experiences crammed in the text are more numerous
than ever. There are no more interdictions, all dark spots are placed in the limelight, nothing can be hidden any
more. Chronology, emotions or heroes do not disappear, as might be inferred. Nothing goes away. Everything is
intensified and the entry into literature, I think, is no longer the verbal, but the pre-verbal. The heroes, on the
other hand, have never been more alive and more appealing. The narrative is indeed broken by the stream of
consciousness, but the hidden plan of the author is finally decoded. The text is meant to be deciphered and
understood. Both Joyce and Eliot leave behind a trail of meaningful crumbs, verbal crumbs which end by leading us
to the meaning that the writers had in mind from the very beginning, the meaning they hid and taught us to
discover. The key was not thrown away: it was merely slipped under the rug. The elliptical text, mysterious
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Reversing chronology implies a contradiction of chronological causality. The past no longer causes the
present or the present the future. The present feeds on both past and future, scatters and gathers them. We learn
the future on the first page (if the reader wants to skip the middle part in order to read the last page and feel
relieved, enlightened, because everything has been settled in the end, he could not actually be more nonplussed),
and the past lives by every present moment and only through it, in every thought whose birth we witness right
here, right now. The heros past becomes the past of all literature, and is constantly mocked at by the present. The
capital passage of the 20th century is that from chronological causality (which had been an order imposed upon
imagination for twenty centuries, if not more) to the acceptance of hazard as a rule of reality. Logicality has new
rules beginning with Einstein and Freud, the human mind struggles free from the small steps taken so far by
literary trends, one at a time, it rejects the small rebellions and multiplies denial in geometrical progression. After
the stream of consciousness, the second stage of denial is the defiance of the Desperado age.
The denial of plot is in fact the denial of a classical story: this happened because... The incident is still there.
In its absence, in the absence of the narrative, there would be no literature. The difference lies in the fact that
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literature back to the soul of readers who are in no haste to listen to a secondary, scholarly voice of the
commentator.
The denial of a clear denouement, the unwillingness to close the plot, is a result of the other denials, the
denial of chronology, of direct outer reality (not mediated by its inner perception). Considering the novels of
Galsworthy, Bennett, Wells and other brilliant traditionalists, Virginia Woolf lamented: Is life like this? Must novels
be like this? Even before Ulysses, Joyce invented the epiphany (sudden revelation of the mystery of existence,
caused by a common object or gesture see the famous madeleine episode in Proust), Woolf described the many
trifling daily experiences as a luminous halo (life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding
us from the beginning of consciousness to the end, Modern Fiction, 1919), and Eliot defined the objective
correlative (The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an 'objective correlative'; in other
words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of the particular emotion , Hamlet
and His Problems, 1920). The need to approximate reality in a new way appears simultaneously for these three
major representatives of the stream of consciousness. Part of this change is the denial of the (un)happy ending.
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the hero is smashed into memories, becomes a puzzle-hero, which must be recomposed by mnemotechnical laws.
We understand the hero only insofar as we can remember his accidental associations and experiences,
amalgamated in an attempt to outline an intelligence at work rather than a being with a logical life, explainable by
a past or fulfilled by a future. The modernist hero is in love with confession, and he is also sworn to unhappiness.
He is equally sworn to transparence, since his inner life opens unconditionally. His soul is a wide open sea-shell
which is eventually killed by a text that refuses it the right to a future, to the illusion of good fortune. If literature
lost anything when the modernists came along, and were later on followed by the Desperadoes, it lost this very
illusion that there may be an ending to it all, a sense of closure. In short, the modernist novel will not end: it turns
into an endless expectation.
Under these conditions, the experience of reading is of course turned upside down. The reactions aroused
by Ulysses and The Waste Land were overwhelming. Conservative readers declared Eliots poem the sacred cow of
English poetry, piece that passes understanding (the poem ends with the word shantih, which Eliot translates in
his Notes as peace that passeth understanding). Joyces novel was proclaimed obscene and exiled. The industry
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Contemporary British fiction is probably the best illustration of all. It relies on a dry text, which implies utter
detachment from ones own narrative. Newly armed wit false indifference and resignation, the old modernist
defiance (whose blood boiled in its veins) turns sceptical. The innovating impulse becomes a propensity to
produce novelty on a conveyor belt, of patching up tradition with compulsory and unexpected bits of the utterly
unknown and utterly unseen. Desperado authors do not renew the tools. They just handle them differently, in a
medley (the text) which refuses absolutely nothing, no literary age ever. All tricks are allowed as long as the aim is
served. The aim is to be different at all costs, different from everybody else. To that purpose, the Desperado uses
whatever he can lay hands on, indiscriminately. All the spices are old, but the final taste is unmistakably personal,
inimitable. Eliot and Joyce could and were imitated (an undertaking that could have cost the life of literature
altogether). No more revolutions for the Desperadoes: just difference (this could easily be the cause of the strong
and often damaging appeal of deconstruction). The Desperado age is not a simple denial, it is a denial of denial.
From modernist introspection, Desperadoes take one step further and deny intimacy and shyness. Writers
like Julian Barnes, Alasdair Gray, David Lodge, Doris Lessing, Graham Swift, Malcolm Bradbury, Martin Amis (to a
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Skin, Walking in the Shade, The Memoirs of a Survivor) makes a clean breast of everything. She hides nothing, her
heroes are ripped open, we finish her books with a feeling that we have learnt far more than we actually wanted to
know. With Joyce the heros inner life was a captivating initiation into mystery; we waited breathlessly to find the
heros next thought, we identified with this hero. Eliot quoted Baudelaire with You! hypocrite lecteur! mon
semblable, mon frre! meaning to say that reader and writer were one. The Modernist text was Holy
Communion. For Desperadoes, the text is competition, it often is intimidation. Doris Lessing feels the joy of
creation only when she puts down exasperating sentences. We do not go gentle into the good night of her heroes
(usually heroines, though) adventures. Lessing faces us with the opposite of the mood induced by Virginia Woolf.
She goes all the way from emotion to the defiance of all tenderness, from sensibility to lucidity. Modernists are
intellects/ words/ texts in love, while Desperadoes dissect intelligence in a murderous text.
If Joyce discovered the puzzle-narrative, the multiplied story that one could rearrange into numberless
pictures, according to more or less accessible rules (which explains the industry of commenting on modernists
texts), Kazuo Ishiguro, for instance, shows plainly his need for traditional narratives which feed on suspense.
When We Were Orphans is an exacerbated suspense from beginning to end. So is The Unconsoled. The Desperado
story is a unicorn: the body, stuffed with incidents lined up with great narrative zest, has a magic horn, which is
the mystery of the plot, its suspense. How will the story end? Surprise: the story hides something and, yes, we are
told what the mystery is, but things do not really stop there. Suspense is dead, long live suspense.
Consequently, we notice that David Lodge, for instance, does not really narrate: he kindles our appetite for
incidents. Desperado novels are apparently far more accessible than modernist ones; we often feel that, had a
second Joyce been born, we could have witnessed the novel dying as a literary genre. Graham Swift narrates in
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is after. Only when we reread do we understand that the present mixes up past moments according to a purpose,
that chronology is smashed for different reasons from the modernist refusal of it. Woolf rejects chronological
causality in order to free the sensibility, Joyce in order to reach the deep roots of words; Ishiguro abolishes the
logic of time for the sake of a demonstration (we learn from a complicated web of episodes that Masuji Ono is one
of those who indirectly brought about the atomic bomb, the devastating war against Japan). The thesis
Desperadoes want to demonstrate is that, in the absence of a unifying plan like that of Ulysses or The Waste Land,
only a perverted, devious, smashed past can engross the attention of the present, of the reader, because
complication alone can mirror reality.
The Desperado complication cannot be seen from at first. The text looks incredibly simple, the reader
relaxes, he is no longer on the lookout for codes and clues. As he goes along, however, he realizes he is getting
nowhere. The accessible text is in fact an indirect diary, the story of a life from day to day, with no further view.
The Desperado novel is usually a one-hero book, thus going back to the picaresque tradition, which was the true
origin of the present-day novel. This day-to-day plan turns the Desperado novel into an ambitionless narrative. To
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Unconsoled (Kazuo Ishiguro) is surrounded by a crowd of people but we get to know no one closely. They are
more or less lifeless masks. The technique of the diary is indeed (and apparently) a return to the realistic,
picaresque novel of adventures; it is a return to the narration for the sake of narrating. It is only half a come-back,
though, because it inevitably resorts to the stream of consciousness (after Joyce even the most rudimentary bestsellers, focussed on adventure alone, cannot do without the words he thought or it occurred to him which
words would have caused Dickens to bite his tongue). The Desperado novel is, thus, a diary of incidents that seem
to have no previous plan. But those who think that such a text, suffocated by the absence of a future (of any
ending at all), is easy to read, have not read enough Desperado literature. Verbal clarity can also be exasperating.
Since the ending is insufficient, since actually nothing ever comes to an end, the reader is confused and
feels the need to reread, to focus on the same text a second time round. For these novels that come after
modernism, the second focussing of the readers attention is essential. Only rereading can the reader unveil the
hidden complication, the reason of his discontent when faced with a text that appears to be so conventionally
clear. The ultimate truth the text inspires is the intensity of the Desperado readers loneliness. The heroes do not
share anything with anybody. What matters for them is not whom they exist with, but at what intensity. This is the
Desperado lesson: meaning is deeply personal. Each reader has his own ability to put the novel together, it is each
reader with his own novel in the end. That happens mainly because the Desperado novel is a constant
exasperation of memory. Alasdair Gray (Lanark) places a small detail in every sentence. If we could remember
absolutely everything, we could understand the novel at a first reading. Chased by suspense as we feel, though, we
ignore words which look commonplace, hardly meaningful, and we discover too late that we lost many keys and
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relaxation, but behind it, deep in the text, the ideas are all confused, the writer has misplaced the plan. Modernists
flirted ironically with the idea of scholarly reading, what they wanted was the opposite of intellectual joy; they all
bet on the tensest strings of our sensibility. Desperadoes live for the scholarly reading, which makes it even more
amazing to notice that no really adequate criticism of their works has come up yet. It is not for the first time
criticism is taken aback by the change of mood in writers and drags its feet behind, allowing impostors to voice
opinions. The Desperado critic is still expected on the stage by all those writers who might, just like Julian Barnes,
claim that they have quit criticism, when actually it is criticism that has disappointed them with its narrow
mindedness and slowness to perceive the change.
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up with a confusing crowd of Flauberts parrots, among which absolutely no one can point at the true bird.
The author writes gasping for breath, overwhelmed with amazement. He is taken aback by his own words,
the page acquires a life of its own, independent of the hand that wrote it down. In Mensonge (short polemical,
anti-deconstructionist novel), Bradbury starts from his discontent with academic criticism and ends creating a
character he did not seem to expect at first. Mensonge, whose only photograph is a bald head seen from behind,
the man who has never been seen by anyone, who has never written one line but whose work has been sold out,
whose teachings (despite the fact that there is no proof they were ever uttered at least) are essential, well, this
Mensonge is the very prototype of irony, an unspeakably humorous character. The incredibly short novel is read
with huge intellectual joy, which is caused, if not by its thesis, by the intense and liberating laughter it teaches.
Both author and reader are astonished by this feat of writing, no matter what their allegiances in point of literary
criticism might be.
The Desperado text means to be synonymous with life itself, so the author cannot make up his mind to
close it, pushing it into a continuous present. Robyn Penrose (Nice Work, by David Lodge) could easily go on with
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2. Hero
If the author is in search of a recipe, the hero born out of his search is a loser. He advances gropingly across
the story, and the so-called ending leaves him agape and full of unfulfilled expectations. The Desperado texts only
have one, egocentric hero, who manipulates all the other literary beings around him in order to bring himself out.
He is confused, uncertain, burdened with incidents. Lessings heroines are all menaced by real life, helpless but
raging. Their rage cannot be tamed. Ishiguros characters boil with the same rage. These heroes become
aggressive because the novel is their desperate attempt at proving a point, their own point, and their
demonstration is too subtle to convince the reader. As never before, the reader grows to like a novel whose hero
he hates from the bottom of his heart, and whose plot is a huge question mark. Even the heroes of the stream of
consciousness, pre-verbal and cryptic as they might have been, were appealing, they captured the readers
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rejecting the out of the ordinary incident or hero. Yet Mrs Dalloway, for instance, does not do what its author
preaches. Those who put into practice modernist theory to its furthest consequences are the Desperadoes. That is
why the Desperado reader leaves the text unwillingly (a text without an ending is hard to put behind), with one
question in his mind: So what? The Desperado author will not answer questions, so the reader is all ears all the
time, discontented, hungry, invited to dinner by a host that has no time for him.
4. Critic
So far, the Desperado critic has not declared himself. He is for the time being an intelligence conditioned by
a set of norms, terms handed in from one critic to another, terms that are used as reverently as one would use
figures, generating scholarly approaches which dream of becoming substitutes for the joy of reading, for the text
itself. Literary criticism is itself a form of literature (not linguistical mathematics), but the friendly critics (who are
creators themselves), whom Eliot was so fond of, are strongly disapproved of on grounds of lack of
professionalism. The critical jargon has reached a limit which not even Joyce dared imagine. Criticism is in serious
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one and only purpose of finding the recipe of the absolute novel.
Free, clear, shameless style: the language of the novel opens up to all ranges of speech, from decent oral
approximations to uncensored outbursts of sensuality.
The stumbling text, the loose, often interrupted narrative: the present cannot even hope for a future. It
advances gropingly, leaning heavily against a past which is brought squeezed into the present under the shape of
a multitude of devious, contorted paths.
The random ending: the work does not end because the plan has come full circle. Quite the reverse, the
text closes the moment the initial plan is wide open, requiring stubborn, intrigued rereading.
The reader is helpless: his expectations become so flexible that his only expectation is actually the denial
of the expecting mood.
This forceful novel generates a number of advantages for the reader:
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The text identifies with the readers own meditation in the margin of this text. The authors voice steals
into the readers mind. This fusion does away with the heroes, the plot, the ending, as a matter of fact; they
become mere pretexts. The text places the direct connection author-reader above every other goal it might have.
More than ever before the Desperado age, these authors talk to their audience and are not in the least ashamed of
voicing their most intimate and private thoughts. The omniscient author, the points of view, the interior
monologues have vanished. The reader internalizes the authors voice, thus acceding to creation himself.
In spite of the fact that the style is more than accessible, the text is elitist: it relies on a refined joy of the
game for the sake of the game itself. We do not get in the end either the illusion of life, or at least the truth about
the game of the text. Even though they claim they merely try to entertain the reader with one face of reality,
Desperado authors feel reality does not exist, fiction alone matters.
The confusion reality-imagination is obviously deliberate. Desperado fiction is a drug which develops
addiction. After reading a Desperado text it becomes very hard to read a one-convention text (Dickens,
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The features that make Huxleys work qualify for the Desperado race, although the writer died in 1963, when it
may have been a little early to diagnose the symptoms, have a lot to do with irony. Huxley is the master of irony,
which lies at the root of everything he wrote, of all other features that were obvious in his work.
His Brave New World was published in 1932, which is before the Desperado age properly, but it has been used
as a point of reference by all critics discussing dystopias, and, though it could not afford being realistic, finds the
perfect negative place of the mind, the spot that would fit anybody contemporary with this new millennium.
The return to a coherent plot, with more or less suspense in it, is totally different from Joyce and Virginia Woolf,
who went as far away from the plot as possible. Huxley is a consummate narrator, whose narratives are impaired
only by his ironical view of his characters and their stories. Huxley would never plunge into a lyrical text, and
forget all about incident. Things must and do happen for him, and the narrative should involve the reader, who
must necessarily be able to understand. The lyrical burden of words is unimportant. Their incident-addiction
comes first.
In the world Huxley imagines in his dystopia, which is both a hell and a paradise of SF literature, the mind is
discouraged from exploration. The text becomes confusing because the realm Huxley imagines represses
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governed by reason). Falling in love, belonging to only one partner, making a home, being a mother (M),
bringing up children, in short, the very basis of human society and its continuation, are shattered by the creators
mind, which denies the establishment. Huxley feels human sensibility must be thought all over again. The first
time round (the way we still live and feel) is totally mistaken.
Solitude was a central mood for romantic poetry. It changed values along the history of the novel, from weird to
commendable. It is the basic prerequisite for any Desperado hero. Huxleys characters, too, are desperately alone,
at a time when the novel still delighted in building communities and allowing the narrative architecture to rest on
pillars of society, and their families were brought closely around (see Galsworthys Forsyte Saga). Bernard Marx,
just like Orwells Winston Smith, longs for solitude, and John, once taken out of the reservation (which is a perfect
description of life as we have it today), kills himself because of the pressure of a community that runs against all
his Shakespearean inclinations. Loneliness is a necessary time to think, and Desperado writers take it for granted.
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Destiny is an idea that crushed Orwells characters. It preconditions Huxleys heroes, and, unlike Winston Smith,
Bernard Marx, Lenina, Linda are not even aware they have lost anything of their humanity. Ishiguros characters
have a destiny, too, and so do the heroes of Graham, Swift, Doris Lessing, Alasdair Gray. The creators will does
not allow ambiguity as far as the space of his characters is concerned. His world is his own, even though he
chooses to communicate it more or less at random. Huxley is not among those who complicate the story making a
puzzle out of it, but he does withdraw his sentimental support. We find ourselves in the very strange position of
liking characters whom the author has left on their own. Do we know if Huxley loves his Bernard Marx, John,
Mustapha Mond? Not any more than we find out if there is any communion between Ackroyd, Barnes or Burgess
and their characters.
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reader never fails to share this cold message of a deserted universe. Which brings us back to the idea of dystopia:
the future seen as a non-present, non-we. The Desperado author menaces the reader to replace him, nobody
knows with what. We read and never find out, because we leave when we feel we start to disintegrate. We give up
the work when we have had too much. We, the Desperado readers, desperately struggle to stay ourselves. The
Desperado work needs our proud independence in order to exist, so we have here a chain of paradoxes that keep
literature rolling.
From the point of view of the narrative technique, Huxley chooses the SF nightmare, and the author of the story
is omniscient. The story is a warning against loss of all human attributes and joys. The mood is one of
hopelessness. The story itself is hopeless, and consequently has a disarming directness, lack of artifice, which is
very relaxing in Brave New World, becoming more complicated in Ape and Essence. The Desperado complication is
only beginning.
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and Essence. The future waste preoccupied Lessing, Gray, Golding. There is more to waste than just the loss of
material values. Human nature can become an inferno, too, and this is where Ishiguro comes in. In all cases, the
Desperado author fights a nightmare, never a sweet dream.
Ape and Essence is a script within a story. Intertextuality begins with T.S. Eliot and Joyce. The novelty for
Desperadoes is that they do not feed on other texts as ideas any more, they feed on other techniques. This is what
makes the Desperado age a kind of revision of all ages, of many techniques. Huxley tries to find his own and
devises the point counter point, taking it from music. His trick has been used for decades by all soap operas and
all cheap novels, it has become that popular. Techniques take a short time to spread, so Desperado writers today
try to use another one in each book. Barnes says books get written as they come, but they actually come with a
new technical approach each.
Dystopias start with defamiliarization. Huxley imagined a reversal of religious belief in both his dystopias. In the
second, dehumanization is more painful. This reversal is an exercise in irony. Gray tried the same thing in Lanark.
If Brave New World was a calm, graceful, smiling image, Ape and Essence is a horror film: radiations, living on what
can be found in graves (because civilization has been forgotten and cannot be reinvented), mating at random once
a year and killing most babies because of deformities, utter lack of love, belief in Satan. Total reversal is Huxleys
trick. Ironic reversal of dissatisfying present reality is the source of Huxleys peculiar variety of the hybrid called
novel.
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His sensibility is fairly dry and his imagination mechanically defamiliarizes and overturns. He creates a profile
for dystopia as a wanted species. His plots and heroes do not expect sympathy, they mean to scare the reader into
taking refuge into his own sensibility, into a desire to stay away from the universe of the work. He makes the
reader feel happy he is not one of the participants to the book. The Desperado usually views in his mind such a
reader who can dissociate himself from the characters and examine them coldly. Unlike other, more recent
authors, Orwell does not aim at capturing the readers good will, he only wants to give warning. His 1984 is a
repelling dystopia, which impresses the readers sensibility by the strength with which it rejects his own emotions.
Dryness is used as a weapon against sentimentality, but also as a device to achieve defamiliarization and thus
appeal to the readers curiosity.
Orwells novels are built by accumulation of detail, which is a Desperado technique. The order is crystal clear,
but the reader is supposed to remember everything if he is to make sense of the story. Orwells imagination is
matter-of-fact. He demonstrates by surrounding his thesis Beware of totalitarianism with a very concrete
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author, and, as the author expected all along, he wins: his sensibility is enriched by a new mode, the dystopic
involvement.
In 1984 Orwell creates his own words in order to convey dystopic realities. Thoughtcrime, doublespeak and
many others have become popular, though never used in the real communist regimes, because they are far too
explicit. The trouble with these words are that they explain when they should suggest. Directness kills the
message and Orwells novel ends more like a thesis to be demonstrated than a novel which can capture our
emotions. Whether Orwell wanted his readers to side with him emotionally, we shall never know, as we shall not
know this about any of the Desperadoes, even about those who claim they want to amuse, to win the reader over.
All Desperadoes have a very strange way of showing their love for the reader, and were it not for their forceful
creative impulse, we might easily mistake their love of complications for a desire to destroy the pleasure of the
novel for us.
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Ishiguros The Unconsoled). It is a crutch for memory. This real or imaginary diary (which is the novel itself in the
long run) relies heavily on the fact that any Desperado novel only has one, all-absorbing hero, while the rest are
just a mob around him, enhancing him. The diary is the Desperado characters identity card.
Orwells characters, like all Desperado heroes, are solitary beings. Solitude is the sea Desperado characters have
to cross while they remember, meditate, slip into nightmares. Even when they talk to another character, they do
not hear and are not heard. Their only interlocutor is their own mind, inside which the author lies coiled and ready
to unfurl his plot.
Orwells hero, like other Desperado protagonists, creates his island of intimacy, where he feels at ease. The
room in the prole district, the cup of coffee, the forbidden love, the forbidden memory of the past, escape from
the telescreen (false, as it proves in the end), are the concrete elements Orwell imagines to make his character feel
happy, feel free. Other writers resort to memories (Ishiguro), tenderness (Swift), childhood (Lessing). All these are
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of
despair.
He
pushes
the
Ishiguro
pushes
revolt
to
the
cornered,
exposed
to
the
utmost
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By 1993, when Burgess died, the Desperado community had become quite obvious, with clear features, and
they fit his work, although he could also be said to follow Joyce in many ways.
Displacement can be invoked in connection with Burgess, as he worked between 1954-1960 in the Colonial
Service in Malaya and Borneo, and even the title of his A Clockwork Orange comes from that area, as the author
confesses. He also writes about persons away from home, or even about home being invaded by an alien universe.
In A Clockwork Orange the heroes talk a strange language, half-English, half-Russian. In Honey for the Bears, the
characters go to Russia, one even chooses to stay there for good, while another smuggles a criminal and turns him
loose in the West, thinking he is doing a good deed for both East and West. The real displacement Burgesss work
deals with is the displacement of good and bad, in moral terms. They tend to change places, till the end finds a
way of going back to common sense. But the return fills the reader with doubts. Alex is maimed by the attempts of
justice at reforming him, the hero of Honey for the Bears is no better for choosing to go back to the capitalist
heaven. Wherever they go, Burgesss heroes are displaced, they never fit in.
The Desperado writer tries his hand at several genres or types of art, in a subconscious attempt at handling as
many devices as possible, at mixing them, too. Burgess wrote, besides novels, a history of English literature, a
musical version of Joyces Ulysses (Blooms of Dublin), a biography and critical study of Lawrence, a TV script (Jesus
of Nazareth) based on one of his own novels. Burgess is in constant search of dissimilarity, whether in style,
psychological analysis, environment. A Desperado par excellence, he is a lover of words built in puzzles.
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A Clockwork Orange (title deriving from the Malayan orang, meaning man) is a dystopia of sorts, a future
country in which teenagers speak an inaccessible mixture of Russian and English, which discourages anyone from
reading on. This country is dominated by teenage violence, which is a common Desperado theme (see Lessing,
Golding). Honey for the Bears takes place in the model of all dystopias, Russia. The mixture of comedy and tragedy
ends in grotesque, which is often the result of Desperado mixtures. A Desperado hates to be either purely tragic
or simply comic, he has to complicate his case and be both, even more things at a time, so he is grotesque, and
the fools cap suits his very meaningful resourcefulness.
A Clockwork Orange is a narrative in the first person, a self-description of a ruthless mind, the mind of a
teenager who lives a nightmare of murder and violence for which we can find no reason. Other books are thirdperson narratives, but they focus on one hero alone, whose thoughts and adventures overwhelm all the other
characters, all minor and used as mere tools. The novel tends to be a biography of one person alone, not very
orderly or accessible, placing deliberate or accidental obstacles in the way of understanding. Burgess likes an
encoded text, but chooses the one-hero narrative to relieve the burden he places on the shoulders of the reader.
Desperado heroes all complain of confusion. We find it in Lessing, Ackroyd, Ishiguro, Swift, Amis, Gray. The
baffled hero crosses the narrative without making head or tail of it, and the reader is expected to find the key, to
make his own rules for a chaotic world, which the author pours down out of his mind on to the page. What would
be logical is not valid. The heroes do without logic, causality is upside down: we have the most unexpected effects
following simple, apparently harmless acts. Ishiguros hero in The Unconsoled fights this imponderability of all
logic. Lessings Anna Wulf feels she is going crazy. With Burgesss Alex, the reader feels that revolt, disgust,
horror, disapproval drive him out of his mind. The baffled hero reaches out to the reader, and his difficulty in
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authors avoid is the merest suggestion of how we are to make sense of it.
Desperado works are elusive. They do not end in the traditional way. They seem to open the way for a chain of
mirrors, of works within the work, endings within the end we are confronted with. The end of a Desperado work is
in its reading, but reading itself becomes rereading, and so on, till we give up. The Desperado author encourages
the reader to read again, but disarms him first, making sure he will not be able to change anything in the text. The
helpless reader accepts the new convention of the teasing text.
The characters are viewed in an emotionless, dry way. They are victims of incident, the story keeps happening to
them, and they hardly have any time to play in it, let alone to think it over or express feelings. The hero is
overwhelmed by plot, and a plot from which sentimentality is banned breeds a defensive reader, a reader who
becomes as enigmatical and incurious as the author. Burgess, like Gray, Ishiguro, Lodge, Bradbury, refuses direct
psychological analysis. He conceals instead of revealing. The Desperado work is a secret, not between the author
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Concern with technique, both in fiction and poetry, often brings a shallowness of treatment, a use of devices for
their own sake, without a supporting meaning. Many poets chase after shockingly unusual rhymes, and forget to
fill them with a coherent statement. Many novelists look for unique angles and, in the process, forget about
character and plot. The Desperado, in spite of his constant denial of devices (conventions), is a slave of how to
approach reality. Even the Desperado critic is undecided, as there seems to be no particular critical approach/
convention that favours the Desperado work.
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Born in Persia in 1919, and living in Southern Rhodesia until she was thirty, in 1949, when she came to England,
Lessing can be said to reflect displacement in her work, especially as she wrote her first novel, The Grass Is
Singing, before she left Africa. All her heroes are displaced in one way or another, though not always
geographically. Some live in a political belief that does not suit them (The Good Terrorist), others in a time they
reject (taking refuge in Victorianism, for instance, in The Fifth Child), or in a society they cannot change (The
Golden Notebook). From displacement to dystopia there is one short step. Lessing makes it when she starts
imagining a future world full of teenage violence (The Fifth Child; Ben, in the World) and a crisis of civilization (The
Memoirs of a Survivor). Wherever she is, whatever world she inhabits, whether real or imaginary, Lessing is not at
ease. She is restless by definition. Her books are restless, inquisitive, migrating from world to world. They are
written by an eternally displaced mind, in search of more and more pretexts for minute dissection and analysis.
When Ulysses and The Waste Land were published, in 1922, Lessing was only three. She wrote her first novel in
1939, when whatever devices Joyce and Eliot had discovered had started to wane. Lessing is in fact a reaction to
experimentalism. She has the sharp feeling that, if the novel is to survive, it must go back to narrative at once. She
is totally aware that the author stands to gain nothing by withdrawing from his text, so she boldly steps on stage
and speaks in the first person. When she speaks in the third person she is never afraid of omniscience. In short,
she is not afraid of anything, whether the devices are well-known or of her own concoction. She is against by
definition, but feels free to make ample use of whatever comes her way.
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If Joyce, Woolf, Eliot planned their fragmentariness, Lessings piecemeal narrative flows just like life, surprising
both author and reader. She does not have an elaborate plan for the arrangement of incidents, the plot grows out
of heaps of detail that come naturally. The final impression is one of life witnessed as it goes by.
Lessings novels hardly ever end. They are hesitant as to where they should stop, they drift into
inconclusiveness. We seem to leave the characters and plot just for a short break, only to return and reread with
new curiosity, renewed participation. They are endless novels in the traditional way. Just like the other
Desperadoes, she devises her own plot, which advances at the pace of a consciousness recording or remembering,
and which has no intention of desisting as long as the creative mind can continue the game. It may be improper to
call Lessings novels games, as she is very much in earnest in everything she writes, and that may be the real
source of her stubbornness to go on, even beyond the last page, in the readers mind.
Lessings characters, even when most rational, seem on the verge of insanity. Intensity damages their safety,
and their experiences are very intense. Confusion is carried to its utmost limits. The world outside seems to attack
the inner being, bewildering it with lack of meaning, of direction, and mainly with hopelessness. Lessings women,
since they are usually the filtering conscience, never fear the worst, but never expect the best, either. They live the
intensity of the day. When their days gather in years of memories, they panic. Ageing and death are taboo words
for this vital author.
As with other Desperado heroes, Lessings women have a laziness of body that does not seem to keep up with
their alert mind. We never get to know much about their physical appearance. The main hero, who is usually the
only important one, can be anybody, can look like any of us. This physical indeterminacy broadens this heros
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autobiographical source of her narratives, and in the fact that she hates self-pity. Most Desperadoes avoid
sentimentality, even when they fall in love with their heroes, as Ishiguro does with his butler, painter, pianist.
Lessing feels she is not called upon to write in appreciation or to show emotion for her imaginary beings. She has
a critical eye that sees everything and forgives nothing. Her scolding mood makes her characters even more
vulnerable, and the reader is overwhelmed with apprehension. Apprehensive reading is what she gets in exchange
for her tense writing.
Lessing loves stories and makes them up continually. She does not escape into lyricism like the stream of
consciousness writers. Her narrative is vigorous and bushy. She writes as she lives, tortuously, in complicated
sequences, defying the chronological causality past-present-future. This is the inheritance of the stream of
consciousness, but she takes it even farther. She smashes the deliberate
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be free from the convention of marriage, but they are slaves to life. The beauty of Lessings women is their
indomitable determination to stand up. Love comes and goes love interest is secondary, but is there, even when
concealed yet awareness of oneself builds constantly, no matter who is next to the heroine or if there is anyone
at all. Most often than not, she is heroically alone.
Political belief plays an important part in Lessings fiction. She is rather concerned with misbelief, and she
remonstrates with her heroines indirectly, for their mistaken beliefs. During her youth in Africa, Lessing confesses
to having been a communist. She does not repent. She merely changes her mind. Anna Wulf does the same. Alice
does not even stop to think what or if she believes in anything. Although she does write dystopias, Lessing does
not provide a political background. Her negative view overlooks politics, and delves into human nature. Politics is a
stage long left behind, which the author will not consider any longer. When she does, she is disgusted with former
involvement. Wrong causes take up too much of our lives, Doris Lessing seems to say.
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a fall, and makes her readers anticipate it. Anticipation of disaster is Lessings favourite mood.
As is the case of all Desperadoes, the relationship parents-children is at least awkward, if mentioned at all, and
the idea of a family is discredited. Ishiguro discards the family feeling with sadness, Barnes with irony, Lodge with
melancholy humour, Lessing with bitterness. Families are made to be broken. We see them breaking (The Fifth
Child), or find them broken (The Golden Notebook). Lessings heroes need to be free from matrimony, though not
from emotional bonds, which they desperately cling to. Women leave or are left by their husbands with no regret
whatever. Children leave their parents, become estranged with cruelty, hating the family that gave them an
unhappy childhood, although Lessing makes it pretty obvious that any growing up is a misadventure, and it is not
the fault of the family. She seems to be unable to convince herself of that, because she keeps blaming parents for
the childrens malformations of the soul.
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Motherhood is a guilty theme with Lessing. Mothers are no happier than their children. One of them breeds a
monster, another a child who tries to commit suicide, a third is thoroughly hated by Martha Quest. Whether this
somber view of mothers has autobiographical reasons or not is hard to speculate. We do get a possible idea from
the first volume of Doris Lessings autobiography, Under My Skin. Her own parents were distant and she was an
isolated, distant child. Later on she left two children for the sake of communism, or in the process of being a
communist, which she later on realized had been a mistake. There is never any tenderness where mothers and
children are concerned. Anna Wulf tries and fails; her daughter prefers going to a boarding school and put an end
to her mothers emotional reliance on her. On the whole, the relationship is always dry and bitter.
The lonely illusion of love is the major theme of The Golden Notebook, but not many other novels analyse it that
cruelly and carefully. In most texts by Lessing, in most Desperado texts, love is taken for granted and shyly left
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We learn from Lessing, as from all Desperadoes, the lesson of hazard. The narrative is not a coherent statement.
It is a source of disarray, just like everyday life. We have many stories in one, yet few meaningful incidents, few
stages in view of a traditional plot. Moments keep accumulating till the time comes for the book to end. The
decision of ending the book looks arbitrary to the reader. It would not have made any difference if the book had
continued for a few more pages, as nothing would have been resolved anyway. Life happens and Lessing hates to
impose a pattern on it.
Doris Lessing creates her own reader, who is totally different from the reader of her predecessors, whether
traditional or experimentalist. She needs a disabused reader, who can take anything, who never complains yet
never hopes, who, in short, can keep up with her. A reader for whom no surprise can rise again from whatever
literary device. A reader so used to literature that he is ready to mistake it for life. Not life assimilated to the book,
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The Long Shadows, The Porcupine, The Good Terrorist). Lessing analyses the prolonged childhood of the mind in
the case of primitive beings embracing totalitarian ideas. The heroes are dehumanized. Hideous ideas rise out of
their apparently harmless, naive heads. They imitate the communist behaviour and language (using comrade and
other Stalinist slogans), start hating the capitalist society that feeds them, go to meetings, marches,
demonstrations, place bombs, even get killed inadvertently. From communisn to terrorism (IRA) there is one small
step. The persons involved are not only dehumanized, but also different from the vast majority: they live in
squats, some are homosexual, one is a hysterical female who gets killed by her own bomb, they steal from the
rich, thinking they are entitled to everything. This concern with an explanation of violence, whether in children or
childish adults, is a major Desperado concern.
Irony and sarcasm reveal absurd elements of life, whether it is foolish belief in communism when you are lucky
enough to have been born outside it, or other forms of inadaptability. Lessing saves her sarcasm for all the kinds
of hatred in The Good Terrorist, from private, to social and political. The author even handles her words with
hatred, and hates her characters, too. She allows the reader no refuge from hatred, either. The heroes are
estranged from their own lives because of their
all-pervading hatred. They become dangerous atoms of violence, and the warning implied in Lessings sarcasm is:
Stay away from utopias.
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her readers that dystopia is in fact inside themselves, which means they will never be able to escape it. Whether
communism, terrorism or the goblin children, darkness is the lot of human beings. It is amazing how, after
feeding us on despair and hatred, Lessing manages to make us feel so very much alive. Even though
uncomfortably so. Faced with characters who brim over with emotion but deny their own sentimentality, who are
very much in earnest but react with irony or self-hatred, the reader is confused and feels lost.
Apparently, Desperadoes are pure realists. Everything they write about is true, the hero lays bare his own life, we
could not doubt it. We go along, details start to accumulate, suddenly nothing makes sense, yet everything is a
hundred percent true: we are trapped in verisimilitude. Martha Quest is such a narrative that claims to be as
commonplace as narratives can get. Martha resents her parents, the man she marries, and even herself. Lessing
predetermines her to lose her way and Martha does so conscientiously. Short of a miracle which always takes
place at the end of a Lessing volume she may cease to exist. The novel narrates continuously, yet we find it hard
to retell what happens. This is the secret of the Desperado vanishing plot. Everything happens, yet the plot is void.
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Born in the peak year of the stream of consciousness (1922), Larkin was, unlike Eliot pride in innovation, a shy
poetic voice. His major Desperado feature is irony. He is reticent to inscribe words on paper, a preeminently
sensitive poet who is unwilling to commit himself to literature.
Where emotion does not put too much pressure on the lines, the poem resorts to prosaic clarity, as a weapon
against confusion, which comes naturally to Larkin, direct follower of Yeats, Eliot and Auden. More often than not,
Larkin refuses to use language as a code. He wants there to be no barrier between reader and text. Consequently,
his words are commonplace, the sentences blankly correct. He seems to be writing blind poems which make us
see.
Larkins poetic manner, like many Desperadoes in fiction and poetry, is frailty. Helplessness is his style, and he
works hard to refine it. It expresses a constant disappointment. It applies to Larkins faithful and clear probing of
privacy, which becomes his main concern. Larkin discovers the virtues of ostentatious, yet blank confession. He
attempts an X-ray of everyday life, clothed in everyday words.
The poem is informal. It begins and ends casually. The style is oral. Familiar and gentle, Larking gives in to
lyricism. He writes without verbal fireworks, in a
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as catharsis before, seem to become useless. Speech refuses poetry. The poem refuses the poet. In the end, we
stand close to a poet who has been banished out of his own words and moods, we hold his hand and we share his
despair. Paradoxically, just like Eliot, Larkin grows more energetic and more fond of life, of a poetry of reality, as
he grows older. What spurs him into writing well is the sense of loss. If, as Eliot said, Yeats was preeminently the
poet of middle age, Larkin is preeminently the poet of the last age, an age that he was spared by an untimely
death, at fifty-two.
Having written little and published even less, Larkin is nevertheless a major voice in Desperado poetry. He
devises the relaxed carelessness with which fiction steals into lyricism. The Desperado poetic attitude is the
disobeying of poetry. Speech needs no artifice. Larkin uses it as he finds it. Words cannot alleviate the painful
poems of this poet who is unable to come to terms either with himself or with his poetry.
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The use of a variety of story-telling tricks, such as the luminous core of Mirandas diary in The Collector.
The creation of baffling characters, such as Sarah in The French Lieutenants Woman. The mystery of the heroes
is enhanced by the tantalizing plot, ending in a tough choice for the readers. The initiator of this answerless mode
was Henry James, but Fowles upgrades the model and tops all expectations. The reader is persuaded to give up
asking, and provide his own answers, recreating the novelist in his mind, so we have as many John Fowless as
readers.
The novelist is never ashamed to speak in the first person, just like Dickens, but adds to his composite of all
tricks the flavour of humour, which Victorians never imagined could be used. The reader is subtly challenged to
defy the authors smile.
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Woman, his chronology is allegedly placed in the Victorian age, but he often addresses us from our own time, even
makes us cross paths with the novelist in person, claiming, How unpleasant to meet Mr. Eliot (Fowles). On the
whole, Fowles is disconcerting and utterly irresistible because of that because he has a diabolic
resourcefulness.
While allowing his heroes a large share of ambiguity, Fowles holds the readers hand, he claims solidarity with
whoever chooses to follow him. The novelist secretly states, I am on your side, so the reader can hardly object to
the mystery. Any baffled irritation or resisting mood is annihilated by the writers (false) confession of innocence.
A wonderful professor of literature, Fowles mixes teaching with novel-writing. He chooses the Victorian
quotations most apt to stir the students interest in Victorian fiction, essay and poetry-writers. The mottos are a
perfect guide to choosing quotations.
Since Joyce might have killed the novel if he had written a third word-focussed opus, Fowles realizes the return
to the story is imperative. He goes back with ostentation, handling suspense irreverently, exaggerating it beyond
all expectation. The readers breathlessness could cause a heart attack of his intellect. Take away the readers
cooperation and Fowles novels die. His unwillingness to commit himself to a single, unambiguous story requires
readers willing to live with his Jamesian, secretive mood.
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overthrows and ravishes the readers much battered heart, as it happens in John Donnes Holy Sonnet XIV. The
earnest thoughts bathe in overtly humorous interludes, such as the scene of Mrs. Poulteneys descent to Hell, after
high hopes of Heaven. First-hand irony joins hands with affectionate treatment of all heroes, in a composite,
contrasting attitude, which hardly knows its own mind, thus subscribing to the Desperado confusion of moods and
tricks.
The Desperado author wants to eat his cake and have it: he wants to gratify the readers taste for romance (see
the first ending suggested for The French Lieutenants Woman), but at the same time he mocks at the same reader
fond of cheap happy ends. The only way out of this is to push the reader over the precipice, apparently offering
him a choice, actually confronting him with a baffled consummation of bliss. Happy ends are shameful for
Desperadoes. They flee for their life whenever the sense of closure threatens to mortify a plot.
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Another inheritance from the stream of consciousness, the hybridization of literary genres is a major device,
used now with less earnestness, with irony, as a game, but a very challenging one. Fowles mixes fiction with
drama, lyricism and essay. He starts with a constant dialogue with his reader, as a prank, continues with lyrical
outbursts of emotion (he will never be divested of the heart of fiction, which is shared emotion, after all), and
often ends in the form of a concentrated essay on a new type of creation. He does not define the novelty, but
definitely aims at it. One of the ways towards innovation is the fact that borders between literary genres vanish,
and the novel becomes a recycle bin.
If Joyce flirted with the idea of literature becoming a game of words, a concentrated lyrical history of mankind,
Fowles novels are games that toy with the idea of game, which is pure Desperado inventivity. The work has a
delightful flexibility that compels rereading. Once the act of reading stops, we remember the authors mind, the
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Poetry
Paradoxically, Brownjohn can be included among the Desperadoes mainly because he is different from them all,
because he is always on his own. Being dissimilar is his major feature, whether desired or not. He is his own trend.
Alan Brownjohns favourite word is blank, and it applies to his poetry, which is treacherously monotonous,
hiding in fact a turmoil of emotion, a discreet despair that can never be tamed, not even by the poem.
The music of Brownjohns poetry is present but discreet. The poet seems to be mocking at poetic musicality,
while working hard at it. Experimentalism is replaced by oversimplification. The Desperadoes never bite their
sensibility to the quick. They hide it behind a blank, dispassionate text.
Love is no longer exquisitely painful. It is frustrated, wasted in isolation, deeply doubted. Brownjohn, like all
Desperadoes, is a highly cautious poet. The text is steeped in secrecy. The secretive poet teaches his readers to
find him out. The poem becomes a challenge, just like fiction.
Words become insufficient, mistrusted, emptied, which is the opposite of what Eliot was doing when he was
loading the word with all ambiguities he could think of. Even rhymes are no longer complete, they become
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them over many lines, barring coherent understanding. Rhymes often occur between a fraction of one word and
another.
Though direct, the Desperado poet is never explicit. He is unambiguous, yet vague. He avoids committing
himself to a credo, because his world is desecrated. What he does hold sacred is the idea of game. Every poem is a
game. Writing is a game, and reading invites, compels rereading, reentering and winning (understanding) the
game.
As far as the feeling is concerned, whether love (see love interest in fiction), fear of death, joy or despair, it is no
longer a shock in the Desperado poem, it is a burden. It has to be conveyed by everyday words, as if it did not
change anything in the lives of writer and reader, when in fact in does change our sensibility. The Desperado poet
willfully ignores his own sensibility.
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Emotion is debunked until the skeleton of naked poetry dangles before our eyes. Eliot dreamt of a poetry with
bare bones. Here is Alan Brownjohn kindly obliging both Eliot and post-Eliotian readers. Brownjohnism finds
poetry exhibitionistic and leaves it a prude.
Descriptions of nature are anything but romantic. Sentimentality is dead, and so is its natural landscape. The
Desperado is casually antagonistic to lyricism. The question is no longer Eliots Do I dare? , but , Am I there? Am I
anywhere? Brownjohn feeds on the unimportant. Obvious intensity is avoided. The poet recites his thoughts like a
bad actor. He respects the readers privacy. Poetry has become the public place of a very private soul. The
Desperado is a mistrustful poet who debunks all feelings and desecrates the heart.
Most poems are long Haiku: they are repeated odes on Grecian urns. Brownjohn includes images within images,
in an endless line, until the infinite nearly hurts. Eliots lesson has been well learnt and is now taken further into
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going to obey?
Brownjohns inertia can be connected to the inertia of all the other rememorating writers, from Ishiguro to
Lessing, through Swift and Larkin. There is plenty of action going on in these writers texts, whether poetical or
lyrical, usually both, in their dramatic perception of the world. The trick is that this action has a layer of
carelessness spread on top of it: it is as if the writer were saying, Like it or not, you will have to find your own
pleasure, enjoy what you can find. The author will not help, but expects his audience to solve his enigma to the
bitter end.
Behind Brownjohns possibly serene or at least dispassionate images, there is despair. The blank despair of his
words is the despair of all other Desperado artists that their medium is not enough, and they have to resort to
neighbouring fields, actually to whatever trick literature has invented since it has been known to exist. Nothing is
off limits, and despair is joined by greed, or maybe the explorers instinct. The Desperado rediscovers America, so
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them in his criticism. The reader must understand the words and be left in the dark about the other side of clarity.
Because the Desperado poem always has a hidden face, a pole opposite to simplicity. They all want to be
uncomplicated and limpid, but inevitably end up in a complexity that was from the very beginning and totally
within their scope.
If irony is the defining Desperado attitude, bitterness cannot be far behind. In Brownjohns poems it is not. Every
experience is open to after-thoughts that weigh like a burden on the readers soul. Whether lost childhood or lost
love, solitude or fear of pain, the innuendo is that no experience is free from poignancy, from exquisite denial.
Shyness protects the puzzle. The Desperadoes are very cautious writers, always in hiding under the veil of a
monotone, behind the shadow of a denied sensibility, which we are challenged to reconstruct. Deconstruction is
the wrong approach in their case. Reduced to words alone, the texts die, the reader starves. This proves the
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A Desperado is not an optimist. Quite the reverse, he is disabused. The stream of consciousness writer expected
the best and the utmost from his writing. The Desperado tempers down his own, implicitly our, expectations.
Actually he expects the worst. The words may or may not make sense, it all depends so much on the readers
willingness to bricolate. The mood may or may not come through, in direct connection with the readers patience
to reread and re-interpret over and over again. The characters may or may not come to life, the plot may or may
not cohere, and the reading mind bears the burden of making this whole edifice work. The Desperado writer
trusts, yet bitterly mistrusts his Desperado reader.
The readers expectations of a show are baffled. The Desperado work, in its Brownjohnian variant, is a black and
white photograph, which needs to be filtered by a readers eyes, and then it turns the colours of the rainbow.
Apparently, Brownjohn talks about nothing going on. In fact, the whole world revolves on the axis of his poetry. He
is just trying hard to hush up the betraying noise. Brownjohns poetry is the quiet before the big bang.
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problem.
For Brownjohn, love is not the joy, but the daily burden. Love interest is despicable. Virginia Woolf claimed the
novel was not supposed to provide it, yet could not do without loves and lovelessness in her novels. Coming later,
like all Desperadoes, Brownjohn feels poetry should not rely on the inner carnival of emotions. The intellect comes
first, like a censorship of the soul.
As far as hybridization is concerned, we find in Brownjohns poetry fiction, drama, essay, encyclopaedias, letters
and, above all, a reassuring psychotherapy. He sets things right by viewing them with the iron fist of reflexiveness
in the velvet hand of imagery. Whenever an image menaces to get romantic, the poet forbids rhyme to enhance it.
On the other hand, in the middle of a prosaic verbosity that might seem irrelevant, a cluster of emotional
illuminations sparkle. The readers sensibility is slowly, yet safely cured of the taste for tragedy, for the show.
Joyces epiphany has dwindled into an icon of commonsense.
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As a consequence of purging intensity, the poem Brownjohn writes is, at first sight, dry. The naked bones of
poetry, which Eliot wanted to see but did not manage to X-ray, are sketched by Desperadoes out of the force of
habit. The flesh on the bones is added by the reader. A Desperado reader feels part of the birth of the poem. He
has to lend it his soul.
Violating the language, which was a must for the stream of consciousness, is forbidden. Clarity is back, beware
of clarity. Can it be that simple?, we should wonder. That easy to understand? It usually is not. Although
Brownjohn is extra careful with punctuation and correct word usage, ambiguity sneaks in and we learn to do more
than just decode it: we also have to detect it, almost (half?) invent it ourselves. Having the reader manufacture his
own ordeal is a feat of resourcefulness only a Desperado could have thought of.
As a Desperado, Brownjohn is terrified of any invasion of the readers privacy. He hates to dictate what the
reaction of his audience should be. He gives no clues, he recoils from making his presence felt. The poems are
promontories of meaning. He stretches out a hand, an idea, and the emotion waits patiently to be dug out, far
behind. The reader is not overwhelmed, as he was by all previous writers. For the first time in the history of
literature, the author is genuinely discreet and quiet. It is up to the reading eyes to peer till they catch a glimpse of
him, and decide whether they enjoy the sight or not.
The conversational tone of Brownjohns poetry is essentially Desperado, too. He works hard on his technique,
but surrounds it with words that suggest he is not declaiming, but merely talking at ease, whispering actually. Eliot
used to shout, Joyce was no less agitated. Brownjohn looks like a man handcuffed to the page. No great gestures,
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Tell Them and The Long Shadows, envisage a world which is not the authors, and which he dreads. The Way You
Tell Them was published in 1990, but describes the 1990s, ahead of time. It ends in the death of a writer. The
Long Shadows tackles communism before and after its fall, as a space that Brownjohn feels very insecure in, and
would like to keep as far away as possible. Travelling into the communist land is all right, but leaving it is best. In
the meantime, he gets to know and understand it, but, again, the book turns around the death of an English
novelist that dared cross the border. Brownjohns dystopia is deeply and subtly connected with his well concealed,
muffled fear of the future, which might be said to be the fear of the century.
The Desperado characters are usually non-characters. They live in an apocalypse whether future or present, it
does not matter which tears them apart, so coherence and logic would be false for them. They scatter their
memories and emotions at random, leaving the narrative as enigmatic as they entered. The exit of the novels is a
dark pit where unborn personalities sleep till a reader fishes them out and makes an emotional map. We can only
vaguely guess what a Desperado hero looks like (we usually have absolutely no idea), but we know exactly what his
soul is made of. The inheritance of the stream of consciousness is strong and also contradicted. We are inside an
imaginary soul all right, but we look outside, we never try to dissect. We swim to the surface, using it to rearrange
the puzzle of the plot. Incident comes before thought, the novel returns to the outer world.
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The Desperados forte is the bitterly disappointed hero. Brownjohns characters never end happily. Happy
endings are strongly discouraged by Desperadoes, as unlikely to happen in an apocalyptic world. The major
achievement of all heroes is the fact that the reader figures them out. After this communion with the readers, they
can, and usually die. When a hero is left by the reader at the end of a narrative, he is twice doomed: first by the
plot ( he dies or is too old to enjoy life), second by the revolving force of the readers mind leaving him, upon
which he disintegrates. A hero is not an idyllic refuge from life, but the burden of reality weighing heavily on a
deeply disappointed reader, whom the writer persuades to fall in love with his own disappointment.
Delicately ironic in his poetry, Brownjohn resorts to bitter irony in fiction. His heroes are half serious, half
destroyed by the authors mocking suggestions. We are not meant to laugh, we are not meant to commiserate,
either. The Desperado merely warns us to keep our distance. Which we can hardly do, since we are also meant to
identify with the character as we reconstruct him. In the end, we find ourselves in the paradoxical situation of both
approval and disapproval. Do we love the hero? We do not. Do we hate him? We cannot. Desperado irony results in
fact in a huge sense of helplessness.
Displacement, another Desperado major concern, is present in Brownjohns poetry and fiction, too. Whether
lyrical or narrative, Brownjohns beings do not feel at home in their bodies and souls. Their minds keep fluttering,
like the broken wheels of an old watch out of use, making our heads spin with the fury of finding the map of a
plot. These minds reveal stories that bruise the souls of all heroes involved and leave no serenity. Every story is
the story of an exile.
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(Bradbury, Brownjohn). Crossing the border into dictatorship used to be a rich mine of plots before communism
fell. It is now slipping into science fiction nightmare. If communism is no longer the fear, despair has to find
another spring. If not politics, then economy. If not economy, human nature. And we come back full circle to
Jonathan Swift.
The communist dissident was, similarly, a major figure in the novel before the fall of communism. It appeared in
Burgess, Orwell, Huxley, Lodge, Brownjohn. The new political situation has made him obsolete. The same writers,
or others, create local dissent to replace the former, foreign revolt. Going against the crowd, against the wrong
tunnel of time has become a pattern of the Desperado hero.
The Desperado makes a point of creating unlikable heroes. The character must be loaded with meaning, not
agreeable. Consequently, the reader is angry, he leaves the narrative in a frenzy of un-attachment.
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Comedy lies basically in the approach to character. Bradbury laughs kindly, though, he never bites with
bitterness. He avoids being sucked into emotion. His characters are funny, but the author forbids us to
sympathize, because our sensibility must not be involved. We must keep our thoughts free to laugh.
Humour focusses more on the language than on character or plot, but humorous situations come up all the
time. Names and titles show comic genius. The comic perception of society leads to relaxed, comfortable reading.
Behind the serene mockery, each character has a skeleton in his cupboard, and Bradbury allows us to catch a
glimpse at it, so our laughter is not exactly light-hearted in the end.
Bradbury seems to be fascinated with the iron curtain, but not so much in order to create dystopias, as to find a source of
irony in it. He always has at least one character fleeing from communism. Rates of Exchange is a description of a communist
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The novel is a small, confusing world devoid of any rules. The author himself describes contemporary literature
as a constant polemic with other works, which means he is aware of the Desperado attempt to be dissimilar at all
costs. He himself argues with other manners of writing, tacitly, in his novels. Mensonge is a brilliant annihilation of
structuralism, of Deconstruction, of criticism that tends to outsmart the work. Nobody is involved with anybody
else, and nothing leads to anything. The bushy plot, if it can be called that, kills suspense. Bradbury tries to write
uneventfully, and to make us follow stripped of all expectation. He creates the uneventful text.
Bradbury finds one Desperado theme which we could also find in Ishiguro, Swift, Lodge: he sees England trotting
to America, with the same zest that Henry James characters put into defecting to Europe. The direction has
changed. Europe is now the ugly sister. Although Europeans view America tongue in their cheeks, the New World
certainly offers better conditions to writers and academics. It is also much trickier, and Bradbury notices all the
ropes behind academic benevolence. He laughs at human nature, but is not happy to unveil the skeletons they
have hidden. All his characters are ultimately destroyed by the writers psychology, which pulls just a corner of the
veil, and we do not get to see ugliness entirely, but one glimpse seems to be enough. The writer stops at the point
where we can still laugh.
Bradburys heroes are all enigmatic. He does not reveal their psychology, deliberately building them passive and
blank. Mensonge is his ideal hero, practically non-existent. He is a dystopian of criticism. His description by
Bradbury proves in the end the uselessness of incomprehensibility. All that the author wants and strives to achieve
in everything he writes, is to make sense.
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indefinitely in this repelling universe (at first), which has slowly grown on him. He has learnt to accept the
unacceptable, to enjoy what at first depressed, even horrified him. Feeding on death, living in darkness, loneliness
exacerbated, lovelessness everywhere, are only a few elements we learn to share. Apparently, Gray carries on
Eliots aesthetics of the ugly. Actually, he just sticks to the ugly, and could not care less about its aesthetics. He
does not mean to make ugliness beautiful, as Joyce and Eliot did; he wants to make fear inhabitable.
The dystopias Gray imagines are not discouraging. He invents the hopeful dystopia, he fights old age and death
with imagination as his weapon. He goes beyond what is thought to be the final human threshold, teaching his
readers that nothing is final, not even the end of his book, which requires us to prolong his universe by rereading.
The order of the plot is deliberately complicated and time dislocated. Lanark names its books 3, 1, 2, 4,
defying our need for a sequence, for chronological causality. The same hero dies and is reborn into another world.
Imagination can move from one universe to another, which makes us incredulous of the final Goodbye; it cannot
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deprivations of all kinds. But the present, menacing though it is, engrosses our attention. Gray makes a point here:
the story is unimportant. The readers involvement is all that matters. And we can get involved in the most
unexpected areas of imagination.
Gray finds his heroes do not need happiness. The happy end is an obsolete tool. The end became an obsolete
tool with the stream of consciousness. Now the pleasure of reading is outdated, too. The reader moves into the
opposite of traditional fiction. He is displeased, repelled, humiliated, his expectations are deliberately baffled.
Lanark could be an anagram of carnal, but fact is Grays heroes are anything but bodies. It is their minds that take
over. The novel is a constant torment of understanding.
Grays novels, though apprenticing us to a new way of thinking fiction, live on incidents. The recurrent incident
in Lanark is death. Unthank is the beginning of forgetfulness. Grays beings are almost all the time on the lip of a
horrible pit, on the verge of something close to death but not quite it. The real heros mother dies, he himself
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characters and all sorts of incidents. Grays imagination never has a moment of dull rest. There is no logical order,
no rule. Nothing looks familiar. Like all Desperadoes, Gray defamiliarizes, and the space he creates is alogical,
makes its own rules, the same as the characters make their own soul, not obeying concrete emotions, inventing all
sorts of incredible incidents, from intercalendrical zones to Ozenfants Institute and dragonhide. The text may
look dry, because emotion is denied, but we soon realize that Grays basic mood, which we share, is despair of
literature.
In a strange way, with many Desperadoes, language is forced into four-letter words, without fear or danger or
pornography. They talk about sex dispassionatley. While sex seems to be a major topic, love is not, or rather, the
largest issue at stake is the absence of love. From Ishiguro, through Barnes, Lessing, Lodge, to give a few names at
random, love is hidden behind the text, in the readers dark area of interpretation. We guess there is love in the
soul of the hero, we find the signs, the pain is very intense, but love interest, as Virginia Woolf preached (though
she could not do it), is dead. It does not matter whether Lanark happily joins his beloved, or Ishiguros butler
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The torment of forgetfulness extends to language, as well. At some point, in the beginning, Lanark tried to
think of other words. Grays style is parsimonious. His approach is uncommitted, neutre. No sentence suggests
sympathy or pity. No Desperado would commit himself in this way. They all fake indifference.
Morbidity is the weapon to fight death in most Desperado works. Lanark chases the sun, which he can only see
for two minutes a day, in a desperate attempt to restore a sense of time. The result is that he plunges into even
harsher unreality, which brings about dehumanization. Everything vanishes from the heros life: love, happiness,
order, logic, rigid rules. They learn to thrive on the hideous, which is a typically Desperado direction of sensibility.
The books are traps: once we have shared them, our perception of life is changed. We may be gloomier, but
definitely stronger.
Grays Lanark can be associated with a number of other books, hinting at intertextuality, though Gray is far from
being bookish, and even mocks at literary scholarship in the creators list of plagiarisms. The novel has elements
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useless,
of
consciousness
psychology
is
has
become
hidden
behind
The
chronological
order
of
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In his first novel, The Picturegoers (1960), published when the author was
twenty-one, two Desperado features are already visible: the love of incident (there are several stories, and they all
converge in the end), and the irony that mocks at our expectation of an end, whether happy or not, while
apparently fulfilling it.
One of the characters in The Picturegoers touches upon the theme of teen-age violence, connecting Lodge to
Burgess, Lessing, Golding. Harry travels from attempt at rape and brutality of reaction to finding a mate and a
place in life, just like Burgess Alex.
Ginger, Youre Barmy (1962) reminds the reader of Lessings The Good Terrorist, but an ironical version of the
issue, although the IRA is present in both. The difference is that Lessing is bitingly bitter, while Lodge resorts to a
relaxed irony. Mike, the character swallowed by the IRA, is the bad student who ruins his own life, yet becomes the
ideal hero. Lodge does not miss his chance to mock at the traditional readers fondness of the brave hero riding
his white horse into happiness.
A true Desperado, Lodge writes for fun. A less usual turn for a Desperado, though, he is not obsessed with
being unique or complicating the puzzle. His story is linear, his novelty very well hidden but definitely there.
Lodge blows the traditional narrative up from inside it. He mocks at the story while feeding it to us. We feel fooled,
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everything cultural should belong to his space alone, and tries to move Europe there, positive that American
culture is at the top.
The real hero of Lodges early novels is humour. People matter less. The author hates to confess, he tries to
invent, rejecting autobiographical texts. Out of the Shelter(1970) has certain personal notes, though. The hero of
this novel embarks on a constant progress out of the shelter of family, geography, childhood, even the concrete
shelter against bombs, which is blown up at the very beginning. This novel has more symbolical force than those
before. The shelter is oppressive, and this feeling of the world closing in on his hero is what Lodge wanted to
convey, probably. Fear often corners this brilliantly ironical writer, who never gives in to sentimentality, but
betrays here the need for a good hug, for the sympathy of the reader. Which he amply gets.
Out of the Shelter deals with American subtle (or not so subtle) invasion in many ways, from the military
presence in a defeated Germany, to an envied welfare, and to emigration. The theme haunts Lodge, who taught at
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humorous patterns of his own creation. He identifies essential features, and coins situations to express indirectly
what otherwise might sound like a tedious report or faults. The academic world is Bradburys target, too. Barnes
does not spare it, either. Swift touches upon teaching school, but he is lyrical, not ironical. Lodge frees us from all
obligation to side with anyone, by keeping emotion at bay. Although a sensitive, easily-hurt author, Lodge gets
the better of his lyrical impulse, by wearing the shining armour of a smile.
Hybridization of literary genres is pushed to its comical extreme by the end of the first novel in the trilogy,
Changing Places (1975). After parody, used before, Lodge resorts to combining devices of drama, script mainly,
ending the novel with an argument among characters, followed by a parallel between a book and a movie. The
mobility of Lodges mind allows him to be at ease whatever somersaults he chooses to attempt in his many-sided
novels. Apparently they are just fun, but a closer inspection reveals a moral system, an aesthetic set of rules, a
participation of the narrator to the narrative in a thousand obscure ways, which we have to find out. Finding out
the authors point is the real suspense of Lodges novels. What we find is less interesting, though, than what we
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a factory every week. Robyn Penrose is assigned to be the shadow of Victor Wilcox, Managing Director of a
factory. Although she has written a dissertation on 19th century industrial novel, she feels lost in Vics factory,
which may remind a lot of former pupils under the communist rule what it felt like to waste six hours among
workers who could not care less about schools and education. The pattern of the novel relies upon displacement
(from the academic world to that of industry and vice-versa) and dystopia (defamiliarization of the usual, everyday
environment makes the heroes see their world with better awareness). Robyn begins as an academic without a
prospect, and ends with a steady job and a published book, giving up love-interest altogether (another ironical
hint at traditional narratives which chose to end in the happiness of the couple). Vic begins as a well-off, stable
capitalist, who loses his world and is rescued by an Australian inheritance Robyn invests in his plan to find another
foothold. Literature helps out hard fact. Woman backs man, while refusing romance flatly. They both end up
displaced (bewildered by their new positions), but rescued from dystopia (end of the previous way of life, menace
of nightmare coming true sometime). The architecture of the book is perfect. Its Desperado author combines every
device he can think of, with such good mastery of the form of the novel that it takes us a while to become aware of
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Paradise News (1991) mixes third-person narrative, letters, diary, intertextuality (echoes, in Bernards mind,
from literature). Catholicism and the vocation of the Church are pushed aside. The inner life wins the battle. Lovelife replaces faith. Against all recent rules, the novel ends in the promise of a happy couple, though this serenity is
bitter, coming quite late. Lodge manages here to smash everything, the idea of smashing everything included. This
can hardly be a return to tradition, though. After so many twists and turns, we stand and stare at a David Lodge
who now poses as a Desperado of simplicity. In this contest of Desperado versus Desperado, literature wins.
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By stating that the novelists job is to explore all the available points of view, Julian Barnes places himself
inside the wave of revolt against the stream of consciousness. He chooses to return to the pleasures of a well-told
story, restoring plot, and a sophisticated sense of chronology to the novel. He does so while claiming he does not
belong to any particular trend, which places him in the Desperado age, as his own trend.
To prove that the story is a sine qua non, Barnes has written three thrillers under the pseudonym Dan Kavanagh.
He claims those are books of atmosphere more than action, but they would not be thrillers if nothing happened,
so we might safely conclude that Virginia Woolf would be horrified at this. The point that Barnes is the first wave of
dissenters against experimentalism is proved again.
Barnes develops a religion of the novel, which must tell the most truth about life. He admits he loves words,
too, but not to the point of using his plot as an etymological adventure, or a tortuous observation of the self. He
tries his hand at all these, psychology is important, yet not essential, witty words are indispensable to his basic
irony, but the novel is a story before everything else. And this story which is the novel will outlast even God,
however many changes it may undergo.
Hybridization and humour are Barnes main resources. Talking It Over mixes fiction with incomplete drama,
which is what Barnes does in most of his novels, as he is a histrionic creator of characters. His heroes are restless
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Broken families abound in Barnes novels, loneliness after the breaking of the couple being a theme we amply
find illustrated in Lessing, Ishiguro, Gray, Lodge, Bradbury, almost every Desperado author. Three of Barnes
novels (Talking It Over, Flauberts Parrot, Staring at the Sun) describe people left by a spouse, who either died or
just got a divorce. Marital bliss is not the Desperados cup of tea.
Desperado books seldom dive in obvious love affairs. They either obliquely suggest intense love interest,
without putting it in as many words, or take refuge in tenderness. The author deliberately denies us closure. The
heroes float in their secret soul, they think, talk, remember, yet never reveal. Secretive authors, Desperadoes are
misers of sensibility. They weigh lyricism by the ounce, and offer us masks to chase the feeling of emptiness away.
Barnes is a lover of masks. His heroes seem haunted by emptiness precisely because of his reluctance to share
their soul with us. Yet, Desperado characters are not deprived of a soul. They are just unusually slow in putting it
into words. Unwillingness to voice feelings, shyness leading to silence, are a natural reaction to Woolfs, Joyces
raging psychological revelations. Who can blame a Desperado like Barnes for keeping his feelings to himself?
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Solitude is an attribute of every character. Barnes, along with all Desperadoes, sees life as a lonely race, and
feeling as a bottomless pit. All Desperado characters are significant solitaries, beings who cannot inhabit an
already inhabited world, because they need space to be different. They would even be different from themselves if
they possibly could.
The character and the author address the reader directly. It happens with Barnes, Graham Swift, Fowles, and
other Desperadoes. They feel free to overstep the boundaries of traditional fiction. What could not be done before
is welcome now, in this age of daring discovery. The author finds out how far he can go, even though this may
happen too late, when he has already written a novel that shocks the reader. Shock is the Desperado lesson,
anyway.
Hybridization is best illustrated by Barnes Flauberts Parrot. It mingles narrative, essay, fabulation, literary
criticism (which is turned into a thriller), literary history, emotional reactions, examination papers. It is done with a
grudging tone, which is Barnes favourite. He refuses to entertain. He may shock, impress, irritate, but never wants
to merely please. The reader is dislocated into meaning.
Though clear in expression, Barnes is intricate in intention. He is enjoyable, though impossible to pinpoint to
one genre alone. He is real, although his novels debunk reality, disobeying every novelistic convention and mixing
them all together. Barnes uses bits of rules in a conventionless text, and demonstrates that freedom can be
enjoyed, both in writing and in reading. There is only one major condition for Barnes: the text must be sparkling in
order to exist.
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Desperado heroes, Barnes heroes, often suffer from a kind of emotional mongolism. The author refuses to
allow them the right to confession. As the author is silent himself, and his heroes are not much more talkative
when it comes to their inner world, the reader is left to his own devices. A suspicious reader, who can create his
own image of a sketched hero and furnish it with his own soul, an involved reader, is the ideal Desperado reader.
The iron curtain is a theme Barnes treats in Staring at the Sun and The Porcupine, and which he shares with
Desperadoes like Orwell, Huxley, Burgess, Bradbury, Greene, Lessing, Brownjohn. Translation from a communist
language into English is usually hilarious. In China they explain: The temple was repented. We grow ladies. Here is
the sobbing centre. Outside dystopias, the Western authors do not understand much of communism, satisfied
with the irony directed at the use of language, which they realize is the famous wooden language of ready-made,
politically correct statements. The Desperado insufficient characters fail to deal with communism in depth, even
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Golding, Brownjohn (To Clear the River, a first novel as well). The outlet for teenage energy is not violence here,
but the use of French in English sentences. It is a mild outlet, as compared to Alex in A Clockwork Orange, or the
gangs in The Memoirs of a Survivor and The Fifth Child. Barnes stresses the teenagers defiance, more than their
potential for violence.
Julian Barnes irony and lyricism coexist. They feed on the feelings he hides. He defies both the tradition of
sentiment and that of realism, building his own devices as he goes along.
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A Desperado author is not happy until his reader gives in to the novel as to a trance. Ackroyd moves back and
forth in time, between centuries, or between minds, confusing the reader, who ends by living in a perpetual
present, which includes all times, all thoughts, all sensibilities. The highly narrative style is mingled with a lyrical
suspension of disbelief. Although full of suspense and palpitating stories, his novels are preeminently lyrical
experiences.
Ackroyd creates his own reader, the sharing reader, who has to do much more than take the authors words for
granted. He has to lend himself to the authors expert hand, and this author is never satisfied till he reaches
absolute communion. He leads us, readers, to the point where we become him, the author. We partake of a sacred
rite (the novelists imagination). The novel is like holy communion with an overwhelmingly creative mind. Ackroyd
is a stream of imagination, and the reader becomes creative himself, in a natural, soft way, quite new to the
Desperado stiffness.
Ackroyd, who wrote a remarkable critical biography of T.S. Eliot, works with leitmotifs, just like Eliot. His images
are repeated at intervals of centuries, and we feel above time, which is again quite un-Desperado. Exultation at the
power of imagination is uncommon to the Desperado reticence, the Desperado commonsensical view of the
supernatural. Even dystopias are practical, realistic, as true to life as possible. When Ishiguro places The
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(Flauberts Parrot), Lessing (The Memoirs of a Survivor), Michael Ondaatje (The English Patient). Ackroyd treats it
like a sweet mystery. It is present in all his novels as a physical state, not as an incident. There is a life in death, a
life after death, life and death are woven together. Ackroyd uses his imagination and lyricism to make us see death
as the courage to live beyond. Crossing the border, crossing all borders, is Ackroyds lesson, the reason why his
books are strong and invigorating.
The aesthetic value of the ugly, the scary, the depressing and the unhealthy is an influence of Eliot again, but
Ackroyd does something old Eliot would never have expected. He restores beauty to those states, whose
hideousness appealed to Eliot precisely because it was something else than harmony. A character believes in Satan
and builds churches to evil, another has brief moments of relapse into the frightening literary common
subconscious. Fear is hope, feelings storm. Ackroyds literature emanates spiritual strength.
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imagination, which is all powerful. Most Desperadoes are not that lucky. They are dry and refuse access to the
beyond. Ackroyd has an uncommon gift of phrase, which shows he is a poet, not just a novelist. He loves words,
and he is good at making them cohere harmoniously, in sentences which are, in fact, short poems in themselves.
He is not so much direct as evocative of moods. He reaches the reader via the readers ability to be impressed
emotionally and aesthetically. Peter Ackroyd manages to combine the love of striking, memorable words of his
stream of consciousness predecessors with the matter-of-fact narrative of the Desperadoes. He is a hybrid of two
authors: one who means to enslave the reader, the other one, who sets the reader free to find his own way, and
watches him enigmatically. More a slave to words than his contemporaries, Ackroyd takes us into his confidence,
using all the devices he can think of, confident the reader will always approve. His approving reader is, indeed,
right by his side.
Chronology is ruined in a subtle way. All time feels like the past, and we feel privileged to share it. Ackroyd is
not a matter-of-fact narrator, like Lessing, Lodge, Bradbury. The others have their own colours, too. Lessing is
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Not trying to be witty, humorous, or even ironical, the only refuge left for Ackroyd is to be in dead earnest. He
builds his plots in good faith, meaning what he says, and never implying disparaging parallels, never talking about
characters tongue in his cheek. Ackroyds narrative good faith makes the reader devour the incidents without
wondering how real they can be, as long as their burden of poetic mystery motivates him to look for emotion,
more than meaning.
Typical for a Desperado, Ackroyd mixes fiction, poetry, drama, history, music, thoughts and dialogue, and keeps
the reader interested although he provides no romance, no love interest. The interest of the Desperado novel
obviously moves from the couple to the lonely individual facing life. The author does not feel at liberty to inform
us about this characters life in the traditional, chronological way, the past caused by the present, and the present
triggering, causing the future to happen. The character rejects chronological causality, as a matter of fact. Life is a
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Ackroyd creates the dreamy novel, perfectly illustrated by English Music. The plot of this book is our mind itself.
It is written both in the first and third person. Real life and dreams or trance alternate. The moments of trance sink
deep into old music, old literature, old painting. The further back our mind takes us into the past, the stronger the
plot. The plot is our own thought, we identify completely with the text. We share the ever after and ever before.
The book is private, and reading it is a private experience, too.
A Desperado work, whether poem or novel, has many layers of imagination, reminding the critic of SouthAmerican fiction, such authors as Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Ishiguro did very much the same as Marquez in The
Unconsoled. Eliot came also very close in The Waste Land. Cultured fiction, cultured poetry, are very common with
Desperadoes, while it was an innovation with Eliot. The Notes to The Waste Land were like a manifesto, while
Desperado works are cultured as a matter of fact, like breathing in and breathing out. Among waves of literary
memories, the unwilling narrative winds among mysteries af all kinds, which we are required to absorb as they
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Clockwork Orange, or in most novels which are a monologue whose hero addresses the reader, directly or in an
oblique way. His language abounds in four-letter words, as a verbal tic. These novels are noisy, but point to a
feeling of sad inner emptiness.
Just like Fowles, but in a more extensive way, Amis is his own hero. Not only do we find the author in the book,
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Amis aims at a kind of novel-vrit. Orality debunks suspense, yet something must keep us interested, must
keep us reading on. Amis resorts to something he carries to a peak, which is the aesthetics of the repelling. The
author is very direct, the characters do not intend to win us over. They love their lovelessness.
Martin Amis does not take himself seriously, and his heroes also mock at themselves and everybody else. They
con themselves and whomever else they can, they are eager to outsmart. The reader, on the other hand, sees
through the heros (the authors) deviousness, and is not amused. He is disabused. The reaction Amis stirs in his
reader is one of escape: whoever reads him feels like running to the nearest life other than his, and renting it.
Running away from themselves is what heroes do best in these books.
Amis writes from everybodys point of view. He creates a need for privacy in his books. It feels as if the readers,
millions of readers, were the heroes, and Amis had to flee for his life, not give himself away, hide whatever he can.
The readers devour the author, this is the major fear in Money.
Amis feels language to be very important, which makes him highly quotable at times. He also has a reversed cult
for America, which means he admits there are advantages, but he feels that Brits going that way are wrong. Puns,
pilgrimages to America and hatred would be an adequate summary of The Information, and a good description of
Amis main obsessions. Adding to it sex, of course, emotionless as it may be. The trick which makes us go on
reading is Amis successful attempt at making us share creation: he makes us the writers, takes us as his
accomplices, treats us as his equals, who know everything he knows.
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Desperadoes are more or less Faulknerian novelists, and this is more obvious with Graham Swift than many
others. Details woven in a puzzle trigger a later revelation each, postponing the end of he book. Actually, like
many Desperado novels, Swifts books end unwillingly. Between words and incidents, Graham Swift fights the
waters of silence, and reclaims every inch of a bewitched land of memories.
Waterland (1983) is one of the best examples of the Desperado version of hybridization of genres: it mixes
fiction, poetry, history, essay, diary, teaching. It is less of a deliberate plan of thoughts than Joyces Ulysses, and it
advances stealthily among ever new environments.
The plot itself is uncomplicated, but narration is baffling. A history teacher addresses his pupils, and we soon
find out we could be the pupils, and history could easily be the plot. We read smoothly, though breathlessly, but
the overall impression is one of frustration. Unlike Virginia Woolf, who meant to smash the plot, but only achieved
novels which we easily rearrange along the chronology past-present-future, which she so hated, Graham Swift is
free from temporal causality. His novel feeds on incidents (and lyricism), but these innumerable fragments of the
narrative float independently from any temporal determination. We rearrange an emotional puzzle, not a temporal
one. Virginia Woolf did not go as far as changing the foundation of her characters, and these characters forced us
to rearrange their lives chronologically. Graham Swift achieves what she aimed at, yet had no idea how to get: he
splits the hero into feelings. When we have done assembling this enigmatical being, under the pressure of the
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are slowed down, in panic over incidents which nobody, not even the author, can control. Confusion replaces
explanation.
Waterland follows the stream of Tom Cricks memories, but it could not be farther away from the stream of
consciousness. We are not invited within the minds of the characters. Swift sketches their outside story, even that
is done fitfully, and also breathtakingly. We are shocked into remembrance of things past. The author flatly
replaces sentimentality with sentimental horror, which is very different from Woolfs decision that the novel needs
no love-interest. It is much more general and profound than the modernist mere revolt against realism. It is a new
trend. The Desperado age is not against previous trends, as modernism was. The Desperadoes are outside trends,
devices, fashions. They change the meaning of literature. They adapt literature to the mind of a reader surrounded
by visual stimuli and in danger of forgetting how to read. They reinforce the reading experience at a time when the
screen threatens to take over. No film made after a very good novel (The French Lieutenants Woman, Nice Work,
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child, teacher-pupil, friend to friend, superior to subordinate relationships. There can only be surrogates for love.
Love as an experience is denied. The couple is a topic non grata.
The Desperado narrative is ostentatiously informal. The hero speaks naturally, the reader strives to follow. The
main trick to make this monologue interesting is to run the movie backwards: the details are lined up from end to
the very beginning, the truth is delayed, and finally merges with its future, which is the narrators old age, as a
rule (sometimes his death, as in Lanark).
The informal narrative is interrupted by poetic sentences, relying on metaphor, images, haiku-like thoughts.
With many Desperadoes, some paragraphs are blank verse poems (see Ackroyd, Barnes, Ishiguro, Swift). Fiction
resorts more and more to the poetic arsenal in order to get through to the reader. When the author wants to grab
his readers sensibility, he writes a poematic thought, and this is the signal for the reader to use sympathy, to feel.
This signal used to be the story of a love, of a couple, but the world has changed, and key experiences are no
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suspense, which can make sense only when put all together. Treat the reader as yourself, is the slogan Desperado
authors carry in their march.
Unlike most Desperadoes, Swift loves the sweetness of the picturesque. Beauty cannot exist unless in accidental
islands, but they are even more piercing as they are rare. The lack of beauty explains why a novel like Waterland
ends with all kinds of departures: Mary leaves sanity, Tom Crick leaves his classes of history, Dick goes away, and
we leave the text, relieved that we can breathe out of the captivity Swift planned for us.
Swifts novels have something Jamesian about them, but he goes farther than the father of the stream of
consciousness. He abuses half-statements, double meanings, incomplete thoughts. Confusion is often overdone.
The plot refuses to lure us by revealing psychology. All in all, we seem to be keeping company with an insufficient
Henry James. It takes a while for the reader to find his bearings in Swifts stories, to realize what he should be
looking forward to. Strange heroes undergo half-revealed experiences, and all along they wonder (we wonder, too)
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author never wants to stop, and when he does, the reader is angry, and feels like shouting, with Eliots words: Why
have you stopped thinking? THINK!
Desperado novels are endless goodbyes. Ever After is such a book. Characters keep dying, coming back to life in
person or in diaries, memories. Swift is concerned with history of all kinds (World Wars, natural history and
prehistory, individual history). A hero-writers sentence exclaims: The struggle for existence? Ha! The struggle for
remembrance. A writer within a writer finds it more important to discover himself by means of writing, than to
address posterity. The Desperado writer is constantly in search for himself. The novel is a constant question mark.
The reader is pushed between the lines. Like the others, Swift writes an insecure text, using memory as its fragile
foundation. We find Graham Swift, as we find the other Desperado authors, struggling ever after with the dragon
called myself.
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Kazuo Ishiguro was born in Japan, and came to England at the age of five. His books are the perfect image of
displacement. Either he pictures Japanese heroes displaced (sent to England or to an unfamiliar time), as it
happens in A Pale View of Hills, An Artist of the Floating World, or he finds a way of displacing English heroes (The
Remains of the Day). He also creates an ideal environment for displacement, actually building a dystopia (The
Unconsoled). Displaced heroes are silent, not voicing their unhappiness, which is however there. The mother in A
Pale View of Hills remembers in such a way that her whole memory becomes a question mark. She silently wonders
whether her older daughter committed suicide because she was brought from Japan to England. She keeps
thinking of her Japanese friend who wanted to emigrate, yet possibly never managed to. America is the third
Desperado theme which Ishiguro brings up. The new owner of Darlington Hall is American, and his friends look at
his new possession as at a bargain with local colour, the real thing. Americans are also present in defeated Japan,
and described with resentment. When civilization collapses, the Desperadoes see Americans invade, with next to
no education, but with obvious welfare. America is the promised land for many after-war individuals, who have
had enough of English, Japanese or German poverty. Very sensitive to three major Desperado themes,
displacement, dystopia and America, Ishiguro is highly representative for the turn of the millennium.
Dissimulated emotion is Ishiguros main feature in everything he has written so far. His characters may seem
empty, they are incredibly shy, reluctant to verbalize. To hunt and shoot feelings is the main pastime of Ishiguros
reader. Annoyed because he cannot share what he is never told exists, this reader goes back to the text again and
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World), others are however highly endearing (The Unconsoled), or at least exquisitely loving (The Remains of the
Day). Unlike Graham Swift or Ackroyd, yet very much like Barnes, Gray, Amis, though in a totally different manner,
Ishiguro holds emotion prisoner in a castle of ice. Japanese lace surrounds every gesture. Each incident is perfect,
a haiku in movement. Climbing each step of the soul, while seeming to tread a flat road, the plot reaches
emotional intensity blindfolded.
The characters are unwilling to unveil their names. Very often they do not even have a first name (see Stevens,
the butler), and when they do have a full name, it is not important, since very few use it. Which proves that the
novel is a dissimulated monologue of the one main hero, surrounded by secondary characters, all carefully
outlined, yet totally unimportant for their soul. The only character with a soul is the main one, who takes his time
to unveil some of his experiences. Ishiguro is a
one-hero novelist, like all Desperadoes.
Decency and restraint govern Ishiguros writings. Apparently his words are unemotional, matter-of-fact. The
faces of his heroes are impenetrable, their figures hieratic, prone to immobility. Inner movement cannot be
hidden, but Ishiguro would rather the reader discovered that on his own. He will not give in to outspoken lyricism,
although the substance of all his writings is unbelievably tender. Each main hero loves and is hurt, every incident
must be viewed carefully. Ishiguro wants to look like a gentle author, sparing his characters the pain of unwanted
revelation. Actually, he leaves all the signs behind, for the reader to find out suffering. This Desperado author
does not know the meaning of happiness. The painter denied by Post-War, Americanized Japan, the butler of a
dead master and a past great time, the Japanese mother living in an alien, lonely country, the pianist who does not
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emotional quality of each separate incident. We read a mind, discover the way it works, where it fails, and this
failure of the mind is the real cause of the tragedy in the book. All characters are peculiar intellects. They are also
very stubborn, and stick to their direction. No character in Ishiguro changes, they are all static and revealed in the
order the author carefully plans. If we manage to decode the order of thoughts, we are faced with a fanatic mind,
which is bitterly defeated in the end. The end of each novel is a defeat, and the author, the reader too, can only
accept. Nothing doing.
Ishiguros major device is understatement. Although after a second, third reading it becomes fairly obvious that
the painter is an ex-fascist, who dreamt of imperial Japan and sent to jail a left-wing colleague, Ishiguro never
says a word against him. The book is not very much in love with this tyrannical, resentful old painter, dreaming of
his youthful mistakes, which to him are still the right way. Stubbornness is a general feature of all these
characters, who never change, not within the space of Ishiguros mind. They may decline from favour, but their
dignity is untouched, they never repent or amend. Ishiguros main heroes are never likable persons. We learn to
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as a way out of the novel, as a direction to be followed by the reader. They resort to this might-have-been
happiness, much more effective than a clear recording of a happy-end on the last page. If we think of it, the
Desperado novel has no end at all. It merely stops, while the reader feels the underground stream actually goes on
and he is denied access. This frustrated reader turns creative, rereads, decodes, writes about the book, in short,
he will not let it go.
The American Mr. Farraday, who buys Darlington Hall with the butler in it, is no longer Henry James American,
who would defect to Europe at any time, or a T.S. Eliot, who felt America was stifling him as a poet. This American
does not complain about his country in the least. He has a complex of superiority. He advises and judges Stevens
by his own standards. He imposes his outlook, is totally blind to Europe. Like all Desperadoes, Ishiguro also
notices that America has come of age.
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to accept the Americanization of Japan, down to something as basic as the cartoons watched by his grandson: not
samurais, but cowboys. The pianist is set to change the world with his music, yet his own private life is destroyed
precisely because of it, because of the tours on which, we have reason to believe, he does not even have a chance
to play. The heroes cling to whatever it was they were doing when the change came upon them and the reader has
no choice but disapprove. The disapproving reader is a natural consequence of this strategy of change and
inadaptability, which Ishiguro, and most Desperadoes, use.
Ishiguros main heroes, like Grays, Barnes, Lessings, suffer from a secrecy of the mind. If we are to find the
logical way out of the maze of incidents, the order in the puzzle, we have to break a door, violate the authors
silence. Stevens does not like to be found out, on various occasions: he denies having served his master when
some villagers denounce him as an ex-fascist, declares he needs a good housekeeper when he goes in search of
his real love, Miss Kenton. The painter does not want the reader to realize that he actually threw another painter in
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energy finds an outlet in debunking loves of all kind. Did Virginia Woolf even imagine love could be so harshly
treated by a writer, when she wrote her Modern Fiction, against love-interest? Ishiguro contemplates the remains
of Stevens wasted love and, while tears run down the butlers cheeks, the author smiles at the perfect pattern of
his book. Love does not even enter the equation. The hero is perfect, and Ishiguro could not care less whether
what he has lost is love or hatred. The main thing is he has lost it. Since all Ishiguros main heroes are losers,
there is always something to smile at. This Desperado irony shows us we live in a cruel world, where dryness
corners sympathy, and art (the game) supersedes emotion. The reader has to fill in the feeling, and this was
unheard of in literature before the Desperado age.
Ishiguro, like many other British Desperadoes, decides upon a set of rules for Englishness. His butler is the
essence of Englishness, the same as The English Patient of Ondaatje, a Hungarian hero by birth, conforms to the
same English character. It took a displaced Japanese and a displaced Indian to describe the typical English hero.
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Quest, Lanark, Staring at the Sun, Waterland, Hawksmoor, Shuttlecock, Out of This World, Ever After). Ishiguro
writes about Japan immediately after World War II, England before World War II. It seems more dramatic to a
Desperado to place his plot during a time of deprivation and death. Those who do not use the war to that purpose,
write dystopias. In one way or another, Desperadoes manage to find the uncomfortable.
It often happens to Desperadoes to write about artists: writers (Swift, Lessing, Barnes, Lodge, Bradbury, Amis,
Ackroyd), painters (Gray, Ackroyd, Ishiguro, Fowles), actors (Swift). They also write about politicians, and politics is
very important to the Desperado character (see especially Lessing, Ishiguro, Swift). Whatever is connected to the
mind, less to the heart, appeals to them, especially if it means examining a creative mind in progress. Ishiguro
also likes to see things from above, to offer a generalized image of society, human condition, art. There is a lot of
subtlety in the way Desperadoes deal with these very traditional, almost exhausted themes; Desperadoes hate
being in a crowd, so they look for a peculiar approach to issues they will not give up. Ishiguro fakes humbleness.
His painter is a past glory, and his politician, dead now, is a memory of the butler. His pianist is a fake VIP, an
empty, confused personality, who hardly knows what he is supposed to do. Claiming confusion, Ishiguro debunks
politics and art, reducing them to human, everyday size.
As Desperado novels roll the film backwards, they are slow progresses. Ishiguro uses memory in his first three
novels, and invariably the plot goes from end to start, making use of the least detail, and revealing much later the
importance of each. The plot may be delivered in fragments, though, but the pain is continuous. The tragic mood
of Desperado novels makes the incidents remembered at random cohere in a brotherhood of the weak. These
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Wherever they are, whatever they may be writing, Desperadoes feel fragile, threatened and doomed. Which makes
their struggle to survive and be unique even more endearing, in a literary world of uncertainties. A world where the
fate of the book needs to be fortified again and again.
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What does Desperado poetry do differently from other kinds of poetry? Why the name?
Poets are governed today as are novelists by one great fear: the reader might not get the meaning.
Clarity pushes Modernism to the back of the stage. Concentration is no longer the tool. Conversationalism is. The
music of poetry sacred to Eliot even when he was changing, defacing it (though never giving it up) is dead. This
music is replaced by another convention, of course, since as long as poets jot their words down on paper there is a
rule, an artificial common ground, a convention. The new convention is scared to death by the difficulty of Joyce
and Eliot. It simplifies where Modernisms complicated, and it reveals where Modernists hid, encoded, asked to be
found out.
Desperado poetry is like a stretched out hand. You take it and it grabs you, you are trapped. You find it easy
to read and slip further, but in the meantime the poets tentacles work upon you and the octopus which is the
poem moves. You begin by a simple reaction, such as, So what? By the time you finish a volume, it is too late to
take refuge in indifference. The difference between Desperado poets and their forerunners is one of degree: the
degree of deviousness. A poet was usually supposed to impress. Desperadoes are casual. They seem to say, Do
not look for ulterior motives, my poem is just words, paper and my life so common. So accessible.
Accessibility is the big change. No plan, no cipher, no concentration. The images flow, the story if there is
one begins and ends, the rhymes are noiseless, as if ashamed, hiding behind very small words (a syllable, a
preposition, a pronoun, an imperfect match). The poet seems to be intimidated by the drums in Eliot (haunting
musicality, intense images, raging pain). He is the quiet passer-by, whom we may easily overlook. Poetry has
acquired a modesty it never used to possess.
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*
DANNIE ABSE (b. 1923) was born one year after the publication of Ulysses and The Waste Land. If Eliot the
real father of Modernist poetry and criticism (and more) was the banker poet, Dannie Abse is the doctor poet. He
has the delicacy of feeling of William Carlos Williams, though not at all his poetic diction. Dannie Abse is much
more natural and conversational. But both are, as Abse calls himself, gentle (The Moment).
Nostalgia is a feature that is typical for Desperadoes. Modernists cherished burning intensity where
Desperadoes fear to tread. Return to Cardiff speaks about home, first everything, about childhood and youth
vanishing like smoke in the memory. The poet conjures up an imaginary moment when
the boy I was not and the man I am not
met, hesitated, left double footsteps, then walked on.
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This sadness caused by the death of the might-have-been (so different from Eliots flamboyant experience of the
same notion) reminds us of Paul Valry, who once wrote that we were born many yet died one. In the same way as
the French poet and essayist, Dannie Abse has a passion of ideas and clothes them in poetic images. But it
becomes more and more obvious as the poet advances in age that the idea comes first, that the mind rules the
sensibility and that for Dannie Abse, in the beginning was the word.
Melancholy thoughts are pretexts for poems. A married man catches a glimpse of a pretty girl on a train
bound for the unknown and, when the train has safely left, which means they can no longer be accused of flirting,
he waves at her and she smiles back. A might-have been (Not Adlestrop). A funeral, a priest, grieving relatives, all
emotional as opera singers (Two Small Stones). The poet cannot share the drama. He picks up two small stones
/(bits of broken sky trailed on the gravel path), drops them in his pocket and refuses both epitaph and
valediction. We wonder, but he will not put it more plainly than,
Why didnt I cry,
and why wont I throw these stones away?
The emotion is exasperatingly modest. Alan Brownjohns word for the Desperado modesty is blank. Dannie
Abses word might be gentle.
One poem seems to have been written by William Carlos Williams (Portrait of the Artist As a Middle-Aged
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Written at 3.30 a.m., January 1st, the poem reminds one of several poems by William Carlos Williams at once:
Waiting, This Is Just to Say, Perfection. Here are the last two:
This Is Just to Say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
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Perfection
O lovely apple!
beautifully and completely
rotten
hardly a contour marred
perhaps a little
aside perfect
in every detail! O lovely
apple! What a
deep and suffusing brown
mantles that
unspoiled surface! No one
has moved you
since I placed you on the porch
rail a month ago
to ripen.
No one. No one!
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A New Diary is a memento. The hero the poet (the autobiographical note is such an endearing
characteristic of Abses poetry) on this first January transfers names and telephone numbers to a new diary.
Names are computer-changed into numbers. Some are crossed, cancelled,
Death and computers are a theme often combined by Desperado poets in their seventies today. The computer
screen dehumanizes poetry, depersonalizes the act, the sacred ritual of writing. Virtual words kill the soul
captured on paper by a hand and a pen scratching letters. The poem concludes in resignation:
who, perhaps, is crossing out my name now
from some future diary?
As Williams does, Abse draws upon his doctors experience when he writes and many poems cry out the
pain of powerlessness in front of a sick fellow being (The Case, Miracles). In Miracles a priest is my incurable
cancer patient and he claims to have dreamt of seeing a rainbow in the black sky at midnight. The dream is a
miracle, recovery would be a miracle too, and both are equally impossible. Dannie Abse, unlike W.H. Auden (with
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The Silence of Tudor Evans is another poem about old age and death. Compared to W.B. Yeats fastened to
a dying animal (Sailing to Byzantium), Abses poem is a tame story. Gwen Evans is dying and asks her husband
Tudor to bring Professor Mandlebaum, ex-tennis player whom she had once met on holiday in 1941.
Mandlebaum
doodled in his hotel bedroom.
For years he had been in speechless sloth.
But now for Gwen and old times' sake he, first-class,
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Cousin Sidney tells the story indispensable to a Desperado poet by monologues. Dull as a bat, said my
mother/ of cousin Sidney in 1940, duller than a bat, said my father, and cousin Sidney goes to war after having
lied about his age. Missing, not dead please, God, please, his uncle said. His aunt cried. And then uncle and aunt
also went missing and no one waited for Sidney any more, while the poet muses in his own little monologue:
till last year, their last year,
when uncle and aunt also went missing,
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their mortality. Williams burns his fear of death in fireworks. Abse is more soft-spoken and more Desperado at the
same time: he just speaks of small approximate things, which does not take anything of the strength of his
poems away from them. It simply makes them more believable to a 21st century reader.
It is hard to say who is more the poet and who is more the doctor, Williams or Abse? Definitely, Dannie Abse
draws more on his experience. He finds in it the poets main gift, that of comforting:
Now, coughing, the patient expects
the unjudged lie: 'Your symptoms are familiar and benign' someone to be cheerfully sure, to transform
tremblings, gigantic unease, by
naming like a pet some small disease with
a known aetiology, certain cure. (The Doctor)
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All the rest is fiction. With his medical insight he reveals that Sleeping Beauty married the Prince out of duty/ and
suffered insomnia ever after(Pantomime Diseases):
When the fat Prince french-kissed Sleeping Beauty her eyelids opened wide. She heard applause, the
photographer's shout, wedding-guest laughter. Poor girl she married the Prince out of duty and suffered
insomnia ever after.
Snow White suffered from profound anaemia, The Babes in the Wood died of pneumonia, then
Shy, in the surgery, Red Riding Hood undressed Dr Wolff, the fool, diagnosed Scarlet Fever.
The nimble idea makes us smile, but it is a sad smile, which seems to say, Nothing is true any more, and noticing
it does not make us any more privileged; quite the reverse, we have lost so much since the beginning of time. No
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Night Out, Of Itzig and His Dog. He feels at ease and very much at home in Jewish humour and Jewish wisdom.
Phew! is such a poem, uttered by a husband to his wife. No noisy words of love, no oaths of forever and a day, no
grandiloquent reason for the encounter, just because this, because that,, because
you looked to the right, luckily, I looked to the left, luckily.
Each line breaks at the precise moment we need to catch our breath, and as we go on breathing so does the poem
continue, apparently in a monotone, actually saying things that could send shivers up our spines if it were not for
the soft tone of the lines. The poet imagines he might have missed the moment he was united with his wife:
Do you know that Sumerian proverb
A man's wife is his destiny'?
But supposing you'd been here,
this most strange of meeting places,
5000 years too early? Or me,
a fraction of a century too late?
No angel with SF wings
would have beckoned,
'This way, madam, this way, sir.'
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Soft-spoken and tender-hearted, Dannie Abse writes on and smiles. The reader cannot but feel at ease.
PETER ACKROYD (b. 1949) is a more than prolific novelist and author of monographs and books of literary
criticism (which is more literature than criticism but carries all the weight of erudition and intelligent interpretation
of texts). His poems are a tiny part of his creation, but they reveal his peculiar lyricism, which fills his fiction to the
brim.
If he does not have a sense of humour which would have been very ill at ease by the side of his intense
lyricism , Peter Ackroyd has an immense hunger for other texts, which he rewrites in his own. The poem among
school children ought to remind us of Yeats poem with the same title, but the technique and the mockery at
convention is a totally different one. Ackroyds text is a dialogue of the teacher with imaginary schoolchildren,
who first read a poem:
my terrific love-cries
are probably for sale (...)
if I smile will she smile
no one smiles, your eyes
are like broken glass are
you unemployed?
The next stanza is a set of questions for these children:
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The questions are at the same time very serious and ironic (they makes the reader see their ridiculous
stubbornness in treating literature as mere information that can be studied). The whole poem expresses Ackroyds
dilemma: Is literary criticism to be trusted? He must have decided for the negative answer, since his own books
avoid it carefully, preferring to recreate moods rather than dissect meanings.
Ackroyds novels are all dreamy texts, just like the explanation in the poem on the third... The poet sees his
dreams meeting him half-way. They are stunned and incomplete, just like his fiction. None of his novels is
without lyricism or poetry. These poems are just a proof of the poetic nature of Ackroyds writings. Except that the
poem is such a slow progress, compared to the turmoil of fiction, which Ackroyd definitely prefers, it seems:
the poem is made of sleep
speech slowed down to the nth degree
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is constructed
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in love with another mans wife, and so on. The story is actually a joke:
When David's friend found out David liked his wife he didn't seem to mind; he even tried to get David and his wife
together. David was embarrassed for a while but not for long.
Foolish Tears is a confusing poem and it was hard to keep the people straight. Who was married to whom and so
forth. Even though it was confusing I still enjoyed writing it, and I think I am a good writer.
194 words including title.
Ackroyd may not show a sense of humour when he writes fiction he is so busy weaving meanings and other
texts, myths into his own but he certainly uses it here. The poem ends with a word count, which tells a lot about
computers and their effect on the mind of writers (so many authors fear computers might simplify their
thoughts...).
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rather a passion for immateriality haunts Ackroyd. He dreams of some great plot/ which will encircle all of our
feelings, which he calls a definition of madness. There is in him a madness of intensity, of which these poems
are an only and complete statement.
FLEUR ADCOCK (b. 1934, New Zealand) is a woman poet who is not afraid of her biography or her
womanhood. She confesses that she uses her own life as a story, she describes her own emotions openly, without
needing to hide her identity. Considering that Desperadoes usually and more so recently hide behind stories,
protect their private lives jealously, we must view Fleur Adcock as a paradox: she is harsh on herself (and the
reader) but she is also generous, she gives the reader hulks of her life. We actually get to know her from her work.
Know and admire the human quality, once her words have taken effect upon us. Her lines are secretive, though.
Her poetry works with hidden rhymes, disguised musicality and, mainly, rhythm, the rhythm of speech combined
with a staccato of drama, a suspense of feeling until it turns out that the feeling was all wrong. A tough sensibility
in tough words, this is how Fleur Adcock could aptly be described.
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fashions probably because Desperadoes are nimble poets, who are always ready to contradict themselves. This
self-contradiction they must have learned from T.S. Eliot, who cherished his changes of mind and of mood. So,
once more, modernist Eliot opened the way for what is known as postmodernism. Usually a new literary movement
eats the previous one, trying to be different: Desperadoes are different in that respect, because they rewrite,
redigest the whole of literature with fresh appetite all the time (which makes the movement so various,
paradoxical and hard to pinpoint).
Afterwards talks about the kingdom of two lovers as being A nothingness, a non-relatedness, silence
and unknowing. Solitude is the main Desperado banner. Once the reader agrees to share the unloveliness of the
poet, the poem is rescued from silence. Here is how Adcock apologizes for her own bristliness:
She was indeed my grandmother. She did not choose
to be dead and rotten. My blood too (Group A,
Rhesus negative, derived exactly from hers)
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in prose or poetry.
Another face of displacement is separation, and Adcock is very good at giving up:
Half an hour before my flight was called
he walked across the airport bar towards me
carrying what was left of our future
together: two drinks on a tray. (Send-off)
She builds renunciation into courage and her consequently lonely and displaced self professes to cherish dignity
more than attachment. Poem Ended by Death calls it my laconic style. It is in fact a Desperado determination to
do away with conventional romance.
The Soho Hospital for Women is an Audenesque view of cancer, a battle with death which the poet wins, for
once. She is giddy with freedom, after she has witnessed radium-treatment, tests, doctors and students, the
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The distonance between pleasing and displeasing verse is strong. Fleur Adcock is a grumpy poet, who will not
admit her voice can be sweet. She scolds the reader and writes each line as if it were the last which means,
bracing herself for the last poem, banning superficiality by means of sharp intentness.
The Keepsake somehow reminds of Eliots Portrait of a Lady, with its final line, And should I have the right
to smile? Adcock forgets about the grin, and she confesses she cant stop crying. The poem is also an escape
from Eliots haunting musicality. There is rhyme (a-e, b-d, c-f), but the words upon which the rhyme falls are
deliberately common, ironically insignificant. One word is separated from its s (genitive) in order to rhyme well,
other rhymes merely approximate suitability, and, on the whole, rhyme is deconstructed while it is being used.
Here is the example of inventivity with the split genitive:
' Colonel, what mean these stains upon your dress? '
We howled. And then there was Lord Ravenstone
faced with Augusta's dutiful rejection
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The poem is a lottery which offers not the million pounds but the experience of getting it. This is not the first time
that the poet seems to whisper we are better off with the hope of the poem than with the mortal joy of a common
life, that reading is better than living:
They asked me 'Are you sitting down?
Right? This is Universal Lotteries,'
they said. 'You've won the top prize,
the Ultra-super Global Special.
What would you do with a million pounds?
Or, actually, with more than a million
not that it makes a lot of difference
once you're a millionaire.' And they laughed.
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More and more Desperado novels deal with middle age, relying for plot on growing old rather than on falling
in love and expecting happiness ever after. It is a Desperado sign in poetry, too, to redeem age and make it sound
good, to tell the moment, Stay, you are so beautiful. It could be called the Faustus complex of Desperado poetry,
and with Fleur Adcock it becomes obvious in a poem such as Kissing:
The young are walking on the riverbank,
arms around each other's waists and shoulders,
pretending to be looking at the waterlilies
and what might be a nest of some kind, over
there, which two who are clamped together
mouth to mouth have forgotten about.
The others, making courteous detours
around them, talk, stop talking, kiss.
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Literature, then, is about pain. This poem must have escaped the censoring eye of the poet. It should never have
been written because it betrays her too totally.
Smokers for Celibacy is a rhymed poem. Its rhymes are noisy (kill-ill, NSU-two, wrecks-sex, upset-get, fivearrive, fact-tract, insist-list, gonorrhoea-idea, pox-cocks, brain-Insane, stands-hands, shape-rape, packs-relax,
threats-cigarettes, life-wife, clean-machine, drag-fag). The rhyming words are in fact a good summary of the
poem. The language is bold. It is full of irony and the desire to shock. The message is cigarettes are less lifethreatening than sex. It is an obvious message, no one needs interpretation to get it. The whole poem is an
exercise in rhyme (Alan Brownjohn did the same in his long poem 2001). Desperadoes like to recuperate rhyme
and debunk it at the same time. In this poem, Fleur Adcock uses it to make a plain, shocking, shameless
statement. She defies the reader to say it is not poetry. It rhymes, does it not? It is ironical, which is so much in
fashion these days. It uses all the trivial or merely common words a doctor could think of in relation to sexual
diseases. Desperado poetry is very much about daring. But this poem may have gone a bit too far for poetry to
survive.
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Fleur Adcock seems to have had enough of emotion in rhyme or without it. She is probably ready to try something
else, because her gift is definitely still there. Stopping deliberately is not a Desperado act. Most Desperadoes are
tenacious writers, for whom one life is not enough to rewrite all the techniques, tricks and words ever used. In
spite of the fact that she has all the features that characterize a true Desperado, in this last poem so far, Adcock
may easily have escaped the label.
JEAN BLEAKNEY (b. 1956) is a poet of melancholy questions. At the hottest August of the century she
stands on the beach, under the stars, thinking of history and the beginnings of civilization (By Starlight on Narin
Strand). The poet is a botanist and Confessions of a Garden makes it very clear. She is a poet of the earth and
seasons, of plants and their poetic tentacles. Even love is a floral matching, with the purity of petals and the
solidity of roots (The Physics of a Marriage):
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from the Sunday run (Warrenpoint) in the back seat of the car, dreaming, and having a moment of epiphany, I
should say:
I had a sudden notion of infinity
that filled my head or emptied it.
I can't remember which; can't remember
the notion; what's etched is how
the pleasure of the moment left me goosebumped,
hugging the memory of it... something like
the rainbow embarkation point of love
you can't get under it, you can't dissect it,
you just accept it as the bridge from rain to sun ...
all of which makes me think:
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Between perhaps and the ings (sitting repeated three times, crying, forgetting), the poem is elliptical. It does
not say anything has actually happened. The key to the mood is the very last ing: Forgetting she was there.
Silent solitude is Brownjohns forte. His poems are all solitary races in which the flat word wins and manages to
shoot at the readers soul.
Peter Daines at a Party is the opposite kind of poem. It rhymes obviously and places an apparently silly
stress upon the rhyming words, a stress which faintly reminds of Eliots lashing irony in The Love Song of J. Alfred
Prufrock (In the room the women come and go/ Talking of Michelangelo), as if the rhyming were everything that
mattered, the meaning were not even there. Alan Brownjohn loves this kind of fools rhyming. One stanza rhymes
names with nouns (Justinians-The Virginians, Stevens-evens, Amanda-thunder). Another stanza uses halfrhymes: both-Ruth, Dad-said, familiar-Pamela. The third and last stanza, at last, has perfect rhymes: knowledgecollege, gaps-chaps, population-conversation. This last stanza comes very close to Eliots destructive refrain (goMichelangelo):
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Ballad for a Birthday is a poem made of common gestures and common words, of a dazzling linguistical
clarity which is a Desperado feature in itself. For each stanza, the poet uses three perfectly rhyming lines
(telephone-grown-own, hooks-books-looks, page-stage-age, bell-tell-well, meet-street-complete, door-moresure) and the same unrhyming refrain: I feel the same but I wouldnt want to call it love. Besides this lesson in the
uselessness of music in poetry the meaning never goes hand in hand with the perfect rhyme: there is more
meaning where there is no music of words , Brownjohn also uses grammar to convey his message indirectly. He
relies on modal verbs (v. Yeats Byzantium), and conditionals (v. Eliots La Figlia Che Piange). The stanza with the
modals is the following;
I wanted coffee, so I marked the page;
It should have been over when it got to this stage;
Can I be the same girl at a different age?
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Each verb expresses more than a whole sentence. We learn the girls feelings from them: what would have been
better if it had happened (It should have been over), the change she must get used to (Can I be the same girl at a
different age?), the conclusion that love has not died and this is the source of the intense pain this poem
expresses so flatly apparently (I feel the same but I wouldnt want to call it love). The conditionals are
symmetrically present in the last three stanzas, on the pattern if he phoned/wrote/drove round, followed by
should I answer it?, would I answer?, could I tell him? Even more than a past tense replacing the present
conditional and the main clause with a present conditional or a modal verb in the past tense (with a conditional
meaning), the poet adds a direct object clause with a past tense, which shows unreality more clearly:
If he drove round here and knocked on the door,
Would I answer his questions, let him ask me more,
Or could I tell him I was absolutely sure...?
The aim of this enumeration is to prove that Alan Brownjohn puts his grammar to the best use. He means to say a
girl has been left and wants to forget but cannot, while the man is (characteristically for Brownjohn) absent. The
attitude echoes clearly Eliots The Waste Land with the hyacinth garden, where the man is inert. The difference is
that with Eliot the intensity was mutual, both man and woman feel the pain, even though they failed to
communicate. With Brownjohn with all Desperadoes intensity is a lonely experience. The girl is supremely
alone, the man is silently accused. The poem manages to make us feel exactly that without making one definite
statement to that effect, while being crystal clear, posing no obstacles to understanding.
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Woman turning,
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The simple sentences the poet builds make the poem easy to read. Separating a word into syllables and placing it
in two lines at once is a way of drawing our attention, in this context of clarity. If the first part repeats the static
on four times, the second part repeats and four times, as a connection between actions. The simplicity of
Brownjohns technique in this poem, as in most, is a proof of shyness, of the authors delicacy versus the readers
understanding. He seems to say, Your guess is as good as mine; whatever the poems means to you, it means to
me too. He only points to his version of the story; the reader is encouraged to find his own.
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Palindrome is a poem about young and old, just like Yeats poem, but much more relativistic. Every new
generation knows intensity and loss, and all the time the ages are getting worse and worse. It seems that
Brownjohn is less passionate from the language of the poem, not half so flamboyant and tragic but the truth is
he is very intense in his quiet, blank way. He devises a Desperado intensity, which delights in tricks borrowed
from everyday speech, from conversationalism.
Ruse is an unrhymed poem, whose main tool is rhythm. Alan Brownjohns rhythm is the main device for
intellectual suspense in the poem. Each thought/line is interrupted at the exact moment it menaces to spell itself
out, to be resolved in a complete statement. Sometimes he separates the subject from its predicate (The other
children instantly/ Scattered among the scrubland grass), at other times the attribute from the noun (the orange/
Street-lamps), the auxiliary from the verb to be conjugated (I was/ Expected home from this game), the attributive
clause from its noun (There were so many ruses more/ I wanted to devise), the conjunction from its clause
(Before/ They counted out my time), the verb from its direct object (Turning today/ A tower-block corner), the
verb from its adverbial of place (I saw them/ In the gathering dark), the adverb from its verb (still/ Searching).
This strategy of interruptions clashes with the predictability of each line beginning with a capital letter, which
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is totally different. His life left the track his friends followed. He is we infer the poet, and he has created, while
his friends have not. Creation has made all the difference to the poets existence. The ruse was to turn the
childhood game into a game of creation, which his childhood friends never did. And this is how a poem about
hide-and-seek turns into a statement of plenitude. It seems nostalgic, but the message is not I miss my
childhood, I am back to remember, but one of difference. The trick implied in the title is the discovery of poetry
writing, which gives a certain sense of balance to the author and reveals the emptiness of other lives in its
absence. Apparently a nostalgic poem about a lost age, about growing old, Ruse turns out to be an enthusiastic
praise of poetry writing, which can defeat age and aimlessness. Poetry gives a meaning to life.
A Witness is an enigmatic poem based upon the form of a question. It begins with the past tense (did...) and
ends in a question mark. Something definitely happened, but it was No cinematic gloriousness and hope. The
falling on a blank day ends in a last tentative meaning: An Icarus landing on sand, getting up and running.
Possibly, because the line ends with the question mark. The poem is one of failure, of repeated failure, actually,
because it is about only one out of who knows how many Icaruses. The interesting part is that Brownjohn avoids
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CATHERINE BYRON (b. 1947) is one of the poets trapped as she says in the wrong dream (Night Flight to
Belfast). A poem shrieks There is no way home (There Is No Way Home), and in By Ampney Crucis a husband
(presumably the poets) leaves his wife and two young daughters in order to move in with your lover. It is an
inimical world. The poet flirts with Disappearance, goes to hospital to drink down the end, but wakes to pain and
his face, and tells him:
I wont be around
for either you or cancer
The body comes back to life and life is more important than pain of the soul, for a moment at least. Maternity,
breast-feeding (Let-Down) change the focus from love for a man to love for the child. Then other loves follow
(Coco de Mer) and poetry goes on, highly personal and yet creating an impersonal universe which any reader can
inhabit. This is the Desperado paradox: be so much yourself that nobody else will recognise you. Catherine Byron
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communicates an absence:
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Possibility defines the poet as one of the vessels of the possible. Her poetry refuses older devices and relies
mainly on rhythms and values of common sentences. She claims to be artless and supremely natural, which she is
to a certain extent. Considering though that it is the major Desperado achievement to turn the unconventional into
convention, Julia Copus is a nonconformist who works hard at her revolt, who builds a house of verse for her need
to be different from everyone else, just in the tradition of a good Desperado.
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PETER DALE (1938) writes with naturalness, too. His work is a record of a lifetime. His voice is even, his
stories are not unusual, he is only uncommon in his use of the commonplace word for the most private and
unutterable experiences. He refuses to be pigeonholed, he claims, but he certainly is a Desperado poet in this very
refusal to belong with anybody else. Profoundly sensitive and endearing, his poetry is a diary in many ways. It
records, among other things, the birth of his first child:
For nine months
I watched my speck of love
enlarge and grow enormous
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It happens to anyone.
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anyone...) could easily remind of an older generation of poets, if it were not for the last, unrhyming, inscrutable
line: Ill leave the picture out. Peter Dale may well reject all classification, since his half mocking
half-earnest tenderness, his half-desired, half-derided rhymes place him in the group of poets who do not really
know what is happening to poetry. Something is changing at the very core of his willingly quiet poems. Language
is changing masters. The poet is no longer the master of music but the stripper of music from words. Whenever he
finds himself musical, he is utterly embarrassed and does not know what to do with his ideas
so he builds a tentative Desperado poem.
MICHAEL DONAGHY (1954-2004), like most Desperadoes, has a good knowledge of prosody. He uses
rhymed and unrhymed verse and in both the intensity is the same. He has a unique gift of making rhyme sound
unconventional and natural (The Present). His poems have the diary-like quality most Desperado literature has,
and confession is replaced by stories, which are supposed to render the text somewhat impersonal (Cadenza). The
American world is present mainly in the conversational, informal aspect of his lines. He writes as he talks:
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She is a discreet love-poet. Her moments of love are sharp and on the dangerous edge of pain:
At the door
the love we want to offer
gathers itself.
Safe Home, Take Care, Good Luck, God Bless, a rabbit's foot.
Nothing saves us
from the boat tossed over,
a leaf in storm,
like my heart turning now, as darkness takes you,
and somewhere
a door slams,
long, long into the night. (Pathetic Magic)
Her language is abrupt, she hates explaining what can be suggested. This Desperado need to tell stories rather
than describe emotions (which would be too dull nowadays), to drown in small narratives each line can be a story
in itself indicates that poets need a refuge from sensibility into fiction, from personal to impersonal. From
confession to other people making a show of themselves. Michael Donaghy and Maura Dooley, though with very
different actors, stage the same busy desire to hide behind a busy cardboard world. This is not me, they say
ostensibly. This is you. See yourself. Some readers may wonder though, Do we?
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I need you in the empty seat beside me. (Backwards into Wakefield Westgate)
In their hurry to speak quickly and say everything at once, without confessing anything directly, Desperado poets
find new ways for intensity, and Maura Dooleys own device is combining incidents that happen to everyone but
herself with disarmingly personal statements. She fights the general disapproval of autobiography in the poem
with lines which describe her naked, with her life and soul on the page.
NICK DRAKE (b. 1961) also illustrates the Desperado tradition with his film-like poems, which capture the
atmosphere in past tenses loaded with emotion. His images are all perfect images, shot by a professional camera.
The incidents arrange themselves in an order of the soul which leads to an unconfessed but easily guessed feeling.
The poems are mainly images and mood, like history films which must recompose the moment.
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mingles fiction, poetry and drama, who speaks clearly about deep meanings (which are never spelled out in full),
who impresses sharply and has the readers souls in thrall. We disapprove as we read, and the more we
disapprove, the closer to the text we feel, because the text defies sympathizing. Ruth Fainlight is a difficult nature,
both tender and harsh, both endearing and tantalizing.
The poet has a taste for debunking (A Fairy Story), which applies both to imagination and reality. There are
always two sides to the truth, or, as the poet puts it, happy endings have unexpected consequences. The prince
who kills the dragon and rescues a princess will not be satisfied with only one maiden, so he will go forth again
and again, while
The rescued princesses compared
Sad stories, boasted of their sufferings,
Exaggerating the ordeal.
They dressed each others hair, changed
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The Other mentions pushing against the grain of my nature. Ruth Fainlight is a constant striver. She pushes
the word to the limit of its meaning, she burdens the poem with as much mood as it can carry. If anything, she
cannot be accused of superficiality in any of her lines. Or of conversationalism. She is clear, but every word has a
part to play. Each line has a perfect economy of words and no letter is set down to paper at random.
The Fall is a poem which ends in an enhancing rhyme. It begins with Once you start falling, you fall forever,
which faintly reminds of John Donnes Love is a growing or full constant light/ And his first minute after noon is
night (Lecture upon the Shadow). The end uses rhyme in exactly the same way as Donne, to enhance intensity:
Into the plunging vortex of your fall:
Dark path you hope will lead furthest of all.
Other Rooms follows the fall into an afternoon sleep, when the mind relinquishes its grip on life and
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word. Because she never settles for the next best word. Her poems look like a chase after the word.
Deadheading the Roses is a plea against old age, against death. When she cuts off the flower, the poet feels
she is fighting destiny, which turns the glory into seed, disdaining beauty/ for the sake of the future. The
simple gesture of cutting a few roses from the garden becomes a parable of existence. Ruth Fainlight often
reinvents myths, instead of merely debunking them. Innocent automatic acts suddenly reveal a hidden pattern of
the universe. This need to attach philosophical meaning to the incident is not exactly Desperado. Firmer with her
message, Fainlight rejects random conversation and constructs her argument rigorously, poem by poem, thought
after thought, until we realize we have been reading more than a sequence of poems: her volumes put together
are an X-ray of her understanding of life, of man in the universe.
T.S. Eliot called Yeats preeminently the poet of middle age. A generation later, Ruth Fainlight inherits the
concern and, far less theatrical than Yeats or even Eliot for that matter, she brings death down to the ground so to
say. She talks about growing old in an informal way:
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It Must is a conversation about losing youth and not making a tragedy out of it. There even is a poem which views
it with irony: Divination by Hair. The heroine of the poem pulls out her grey hairs in front of the mirror. The poet
sees the gesture as paltry and ridiculous (paltry reminds of Yeats again, with his Sailing to Byzantium: An aged
man is but a paltry thing,/ A tattered coat upon a stick...).Trying to keep young looks is a losing battle, and the
poet snickers:
I know it can be nothing but a losing
battle, paltry and ridiculous.
Sooner or later I'll have to choose whether
to be bald or white.
Where Yeats raged and Eliot moaned, Fainlight smiles. Not without sadness, of course, but the core is the thought,
not the emotion, and the thought knows the mind will never grow old. From Modernism to Desperado, tragedy has
left the poem and fear has become a constant companion:
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Again is another game Ruth Fainlight plays with fairy tales. The prince who once had been a toad and
ended living happily with the princess (ever after is a notion Desperadoes abolish) becomes a toad again. The
poem is a question mark: what will the princess do? The answer is not to be found in the fairys power to make
things right all over again. The reader feels from the inner strength of this poem that the answer lies in the tender
smile. As the poet ends, Let it all begin again. When age crept near, Yeats did what Dylan Thomas later advised,
namely he did not go gently into that good night. When the hair turns gray and the body comes closer to the
skeleton, Fainlight gathers all her strength in a ball of fire inside her ribs, which is the poets soul. At the light of
that fire, her hand goes on writing long after life has ebbed away, or at least this is the impression these poems
about approaching death leave.
Love may not be the major theme of Ruth Fainlights poems it never is with Desperadoes, actually but
tenderness is indeed. In Ruth Fainlights view as inferred from her images, because she never openly
philosophizes in verse tenderness is a more general love, which includes all beings and all ages. In this way, the
poet can fall in love over and over again, with anyone, at any age. She loves her brother, her parents, her husband,
her children, her friends, her work, her myths, literature, history, practically everything she can think of. Whatever
can be understood must be loved this is probably her credo. Animal Tamer brings the image of the husband
(Ruth Fainlight is married to the novelist Alan Sillitoe) feeding a stray, wild cat:
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My Rings:
On my right hand since then
I've always worn the ring
my father and I chose
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is their memorial.
No need for anything
more formal. Not gold
nor platinum and precious stones
can serve as well
as these two orphaned hands.
The pain is always there intensity and pain are equal for Fainlight, who is more a poet of the moon than of the
sun but it is a pain contained, a pain that stabilizes, that lends the reader the strength to go on.
In some ways Ruth Fainlight is an angry poet. She probably sees herself as tough and harsh, when she is in
fact supremely tender even in anger. But anger is necessary to her in order to stay vertical and fight. She is a
fighter: for life, for poetry, for herself. Usually Dry-Eyed talks about tenderness at first:
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poems, which cannot communicate because they cannot use language properly. Anger against poets who despise
the readers need for clarity, for accessibility of the written page. Fainlight has a huge respect for her readers.
Before the tenderness she feels for them, there comes the anger directed against poets who debase poetry by
making it a puzzle. While always open to interpretation, Ruth Fainlight will not despise a reader because he wants
to be told in plain words what to think. Her lines are for all tastes: both simple and intricate. Her poems hide and
explain simultaneously.
Marriage is a theme Fainlight holds dear. The union of her parents, her own union to her husband (To Break
This Silence). The peace comes first. The mutual isolation comes next. Husband and wife are the others fate and
climate, they share a house, a landscape, a life but are two minds. And the two separate minds make all the
difference. Not even tenderness can bring the organ of poetry into communion with another being. Obviously, the
organ of poetry for Ruth Fainlight turns out to be the mind after all.
The familiar landscape of Fainlights poems is the town. Observations of the Tower Block has us contemplate
the multitude of windows of the modern abode of hundreds:
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Author! Author! reveals her project, which is the story of myself. Her poetry is written because she wants to
understand what happened and why it happened. She sees herself wandering amid stores, parks, streets, and
being one more character/ in this extravagant scenario,/ the story not yet finished. The natural question that
comes to mind is, And whos the author? Is it the city? Do buildings change our minds? This kind of philosophy is
never explicit in Ruth Fainlights poems, but it is always there, to be dug out if a thoughtful interpreter should care
to do so.
Handbag is a remarkably built poem, at once incredibly direct and totally indirect. It begins with the mother
figure, so compelling in Fainlights poetry. It is her handbag, and it is full of trifles that smell like her: mints,
lipstick, powder. But mainly there are these letters. And we learn very slowly: letters from her father, during the
war, read over and over again, with worn edges:
My mother's old leather handbag,
crowded with letters she carried
all through the war. The smell
of my mother's handbag: mints
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she got from her mother. The poets mother is the pattern of life. This is probably the explanation why she
sometimes appears distant and implacable: Fainlight feels that she is governed by her gift, which is a power
stronger than her own understanding, a power that has been handed down to her by her mother. At some point
she stated in an interview I took that she was a feminist. I think this is the meaning of her feminism: the significant
core of her life comes from the source of life, and that is the mother. The father is the light of that source, the
luminous tenderness that makes it work.
Poetry, just as Yeats used it, is a triumph of life for Ruth Fainlight. In a different way from Yeats, Fainlight
asserts existence by means of words:
I shall not meet my dead again
as I remember them
alive, except in dreams or poems.
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is supremely aware of her need for an audience and of the imperative to be clear in order to be accepted:
Like music on the page
which has to be played
and heard, even if
only by one person,
this word, this phrase,
this poem, does not exist
until you read it. (Until You Read It)
This strong communion with her reader is what keeps Ruth Fainlight apart from Desperadoes. She is more than
clear: she makes sure that the triumph of life in her poems the triumph of her story, her life is conveyed. She
does not encode and we do not decode. We must merely take the time to hear her well and feel her every word,
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ROY FISHER (b. 1930) is an alert gambler with poetry. He places the mind on top of the soul, and his irony is
pierced by roots of emotion growing out. His lines are deliberately non-conventional, he threatens the old trade of
poetry like a Homer with two huge eyes and a very sharp tongue, who chats with us on the porch.
DAVID HARSENT (b. 1942) is the lyrical Desperado. He strikes theatrical poses and writes for the music of
emotion. His love is eloquent and his stories overwhelmed by image. As After Dark puts it,
I close my eyes
and invent arrivals.
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soul.
Selima Hills poems are short and exasperatingly clear. No rhyme, no poetic lace or fireworks, just a twist of
the tongue and the whole one-stanza long poem changes colour. She writes chameleonic poems which turn red in
the last line. Her smile is catching and although her topics are all painful sadness would be too mild a word to
characterize her the poems laugh:
Please can I have a man who wears corduroy.
Please can I have a man
who knows the names of 100 different roses;
who doesn't mind my absent-minded rabbits
wandering in and out
as if they own the place,
who makes me creamy curries from fresh lemon-grass,
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of common words and suddenly they fly up into memory and conjure the most intense feeling. Then becomes now
under our own eyes and, although we see it happening, we are musclebound, we cannot make a movement. The
poet has a peculiar way of being personal, of telling us the most intimate things about herself while she seems to
be chatting along down a country lane with animals and birds. Her universe is unbelievably familiar, yet incredibly
uncomfortable. We are buried under her pains and frustrations. Her soul engulfs us before we have realized what
is happening in her lines.
Although we side with the poet at the end of every poem, she does not feel sorry for herself. Her irony is her
courage.
She mocks at the worst of pains and teaches us poetry with open arms:
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KATHLEEN JAMIE (b. 1962) writes in an apparent monotone which hides the intensity. She is a disguised
theatrical poet. She sounds perfectly composed and calm, but the truth inside her poems is a whirlwind. She
masters it by using her clarity and her reticence.
ALAN JENKINS (b. 1955) writes an unrhymed poetry of memories, in which he uses mostly past tenses and
past perfects. Parents, loves, past incidents. The poem is an exploration of what was. Each memory is accurately
invoked and images outline incidents, combining in the hybridization of lyricism and fiction. The poem is
burdened by colourful images and weighed down by a sense of loss. Poetry begins where reality/hope ends.
MIMI KHALVATI (b. 1944) is a warm poet. Her major topics are parenthood and love. She talks with equal
fondness about her parents, her son and daughter, her friends, her lover. She was born in Tehran and remembers
it with love, but she is not a displaced poet even though she lives in London now and has done so for most of her
life. She is a richer Desperado than those born in England to begin with. Her map is bigger and her mind has more
images in store. She knows how to exploit the picturesque side of her native culture, but fits perfectly into
Englishness.
Solitude is permanent with Mimi Khalvati. Even her lines are alone, meaning rhymeless, each on its own. One
poem has a P.S. like a letter, written in solitude to the reader who reads alone, too. Her background is full of
flavour and she loves to take refuge in dissimilarity, calling her reader to the magic world of Scheherazade, which,
since it was first told has acquired political implications, too:
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both languages, Arabic and English. She likes to render speech, too (Whittington Hospital, March 1990, The
Promenade). Conversationalism combines with theatrical exclamations and decorous images which are meant to
suggest fairy-tales.
Irony is not the poets forte. Mimi Khalvati prefers tenderness. Having grown up in a boarding school, she
has the cult of friendship and is swept off her feet by any token of affection. Darling has a stanza in which the
poet describes herself thus:
There I am, small, dark, wordless
but something bright and shining
in me wanting to be heard.
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like rain.
Visit me.
I am always in
even when the place
looks empty,
even though the locks
are changed.
MARY MICHAELS (b. 1946) is a poet of the margin of dream or the borders of reality. She writes about the
border/ of my seeing, the verge/ of sleep (Candle). She feels that a mere look from her has brought the pigeons
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my eyes
are closed
but I see everything. (Music)
As she states in Sea Road, I am ready to walk the sea. Her poems sleep-walk,
soul-walk, tenderly and gently revealing a bit of an arm or a leg dreaming of flying. She chooses to be a poet of
the impossible longing.
JOHN MOLE (b. 1941) is an incredibly affectionate poet. His poetry is sharp and worked with precision, but it
hides such a warm core of feeling:
Welcome to the cherry
So unequivocal,
So full
Of itself, so utterly
Not you, not me, with our same
Questions,
The old stones'
Word game
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As much as...?
Or Who was
He or she?
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Even dreams of a dead father turn into dreams of love more than loss. The poet dreams A Different Dream
of a place for fathers. It is getting cold in that dream and they slip into a different, darker dream, in which they
find themselves standing beside each other, loving, lost/ And very tired. Then he feels caught inside the dream
calling Father! and running to him again and again,
Across the lawn, beyond my life,
My wife, our children, yes,
For a moment as the two of us
Look once towards the house
Then disappear between the cypresses.
The interesting part of John Moles poetry is the double value of the word, the simultaneity of sharpness and
vagueness, of precision and dreaminess. His poetic idiom is both clear and encoded. He combines Modernism with
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The Present is a rhyming little song all Moles poems are words for music, but a very personal music
about one of the first memories of the poet as a child: a rocking horse. The whole poem is a rocking horse,
rocking between the childs and the
grown-ups worlds, between affection and disaffection. Nothing saddens Mole more than disaffection. Nothing is
more like him than the subtle music of these rhymes which sometimes deliberately limp (recess-was, bow-show).
His is a poetry of the sad smile and the constant feeling of loneliness, the loneliness/ You still remember (The
Toy Box).
The pattern of rhymes differs from poem to poem. Wind-Up rhymes b-e, c-d. The rhymes are obvious, just
like the feeling of loss which comes out clearly. The short poem is perfect, built on a gradation of emotion that
leads to the poets own loss of childhood, of time, in fact. A Christmas bird has lost its song, reminding the
literary-minded reader of Yeats golden bird in Sailing to Byzantiun and Byzantium. The memory is brought down
to earth, rendered common and therefore all the closer and more piercing:
And there it looks down from its branch
With empty throat and beak ajar
While underneath the glittering tree
A child who might have once been me
Winds up his brand new car.
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So, what choice does a different poet like Mole have other than to write a loving poem/ Not about roses? The
Desperado need to be different at all costs takes its toll on poetry with John Mole, it makes it much clearer and
infinitely sadder.
Grammar is a remarkable tool, too, in the hands of John Mole. Going On (with its multiplicity of meanings,
from going ahead to continuing, growing old, and finally going to bed, to sleep, to death). The poem has a longer
stanza and a much shorter one. The first stanza is made up of descriptive lines, no predicative verbs, no subject. It
is almost unclear if taken alone:
Scotch and water, warm,
Medicinal, two tablets
On a little tray, his Times
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Troops, dismiss!'
A flash of the old order.
Nothing to do but obey.
The family mock salute.
At ease. Stand easy.
Go inside and wait.
So little. They watched from the house
for as long as it took
(which was hardest, they told us)
then carried him back.
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Some Desperadoes flirt with disdain, indifference, aloofness. Not Mole. He is the most involved poet one could
imagine. His feelings are always at hand and we know he owns them all. Why does a Desperado reader need to
hold the poets hand, and make sure he is looking at the real thing, that the life in the poem is the poets indeed?
We did not expect that of Browning or Shelley. Whatever the reason, Mole is sure to gratify that expectation. He
offers his own world, his sensibility, his universe. His poems are a real, limpid space, where we feel safe, even
though hurt to the core of our feelings.
Self-Portrait in Middle Age finds Mole describing himself after thirty years of happy marriage and love:
To have hitched a ride with fortune,
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The Mobile Rag is a proof of the poets sense for music and contemporary technology all in one. The rhythm
and rhymes build an amused image of our world, invaded by computers e-mail and mobile phones, but haunted
by the music from past times. The contradiction is reconciled in the poem, by the readers smile. Times is lost and
loses us in the process, and
Even a poem
takes time to be written, spoken...
The poet is in that time and is lost with it, but then so are we. The communion, in John Moles case, is perfect.
SEAN OBRIEN (b. 1952) writes poems stifled with incidents, poems with no way in (Kanji). He is a shy
sentimental. He poses as the rough poet who can take everything that comes his way. His reader has to take the
burdens with him. In his poetry we witness a time when all the world rewrites itself (The Grammar School Ghost),
when the poet records everything with a conversational vocabulary and very concentrated images at the same
time. The contradiction in Sean OBriens poetry Desperado from that point of view is that cold, frowning
images conceal a warm, frightened sensibility.
BERNARD ODONOGHUEs (b. 1945) vacillating sensibility is best defined by The Fool in the Graveyard. The
little dumb boy whose father dies finds himself in the centre of attention at the burial:
Every eye
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DON PATERSON (b. 1963) is a poet of the present tense. Unlike most Desperadoes, who enjoy staging the
past, he places his incidents, even the past ones, in the present and the future. The effect is remarkably unsettling:
the bus will let us down in another country
with the wrong streets and streets that suddenly forget
their names at crossroads or in building-sites
and where no one will have heard of the sweets we ask for
and the man will shake the coins from our fists onto the counter
and call for his wife to come through, come through and see this
and if we ever make it home again, the bus
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The same effect was achieved by Alan Brownjohn in Ruse, but he used the past tense. Don Patersons sense of the
past as present is his main Desperado claim.
PASCALE PETIT (b. 1953) is a waterfall of images, all strong and contorted, all desperately clear, and her
story is one of rape and lovelessness. Her poems read like stains of violent colour making up an unknown
alphabet. She could not care less about being or not being autobiographical, she is too preoccupied to express the
whirlwind of emotion that is at the core of her lines. On the whole, Pascale Petit is a poet with a huge baggage and
a language that she invents and that suits her perfectly.
PETER PORTER (b. 1929) is an uncomfortable poet, whose irony pierces the text and fights his sensibility.
Your Attention Please is a description of life after the last atomic war, a dystopia similar to Huxleys Ape and
Essence. The whole poem is a radio broadcast which instructs its listeners to follow instructions in very technical
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PETER REDGROVE (1932-2003) writes with deep warmth about long lines of lives, parents, children and
grandchildren. His lyricism is delicate, considerate and full of limpid images that haunt the sensibility.
CAROL RUMENS (b. 1944) is a Slav sensibility in the Desperado vein. She is British born and bred but her
soul must have been able to speak Russian in another life, if we go by her unique compassion and understanding
for life under communism, especially in the Soviet Union, where she travelled and about which journey she wrote
at length. A Moscow Wife, Waiting reminds the reader of Solzhenitsyn and the political concentration camps. The
poet is one of the very few who, although totally strangers to Russian realities, can identify at once with the harsh
reality of communism, conveying an insight that even Russians might find it hard to summon. Her eye for the
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Swedish Exchange does not even bother with the convention of lines or rhymes. It is true that there is an
unmistakable Carol Rumens rhythm in the sentences. Lyricism comes out of the angle from which the incident is
retold with exquisite obliqueness and from the details chosen, which are all suggestive of love again, and of
age, of becoming an alien from oneself as time goes by. Unlike poems written in stanzas, this poem with
paragraphs is impossible to sum up, prosey as it may look. Nothing more than a departure is retold, but so much
more is understated. Perfect communion is Carol Rumens greatest image, with a hundred faces, from a hotel
room to the door of a Russian prisoners wife. We can safely say that love is the synonym of life for this poet.
Portrait of God as a Creative Writing Student, besides the irony which is not Carol Rumens forte, describes
rhymes as loud self-mockery. Whether rhyme is used by God whom Carol Rumens imagines herself teaching
how to write or by a mortal poet, it is equally undesirable for this poet who finds her effects in a music of feeling
rather than sounds. She has a gift for the loving word, for the word-of-the-soul which most Slav poets are born
into.
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her language betrays the ear of a writer fond of telling her stories at ease, conversationally, informally. Her
intensity stems from the apparent carelessness for poetry, from the poets mood, which constantly flirts with the
readers fancy.
FIONA SAMPSON (b. 1963) writes with exquisite delicacy of feeling and image. Her love is poignant and
strikes deep, painful roots. Her imagery covers the page like ivy, and the poem is all a lace of sensibility:
It doesn't matter what I say or do,
You don't love me. That's the end of it.
Doesn't matter that I loved so well
I lost myself in keeping sight of you.
No gifts, no words, no tendernesses prove
Truths that you untell, the proofs you fell
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only rescue is the reading of these poems which constantly walk the rope between sense and soul, not wanting to
admit which is the abyss and which ecstasy.
Fear of Drowning is a poem written while waiting for my dreams to pass. Like most of Fiona Sampsons
texts, it is a poem of fragile loss and yet of indomitable, stubborn victory. The poet is stronger when she seems
most helpless. Hers is a tragic vein, lit by the wings of her feelings, all ready to fly far away, to a country of love
and grace. A country of words for music perhaps.
ANNE STEVENSON (b. 1933) writes about parenthood, love and death in the most natural tone of voice
imaginable. She rewrites love into the Biblical myth of man and woman:
Adam: Lady,
I've not had a moment's love
since I was expelled. Let me in.
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He mixes details and incidents, outlining shocking stories. It is not so much the story-telling as the thrill of the
narrative that matters. His poems are in fact short thrillers. His imagery also makes them short films, carefully
directed to achieve a mood. He starts writing a poem possibly by imagining a number of incidents which (like
T.S. Eliots objective correlative) conjure up a feeling. The poems are consequently warm and agitated. The reader
is attacked by numberless faces/ characters but he sees beyond them, he manages to figure out a common soul,
which connects all the poems and gives coherence to a volume.
GEORGE SZIRTES (b. 1948) reenacts history. His poems dream the past all over again. Into this dream of loss,
horror and forgetfulness, love steals and lights up the rooms with bright fires. A warm feeling of well being reigns
in the couple. The lines are all image. The music comes from inside rather than from the sound of the words. The
poet is first and foremost an introvert.
ANTHONY THWAITE (b. 1930) writes more directly than most. Simple Poem is a credo, maybe:
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The poet hates theorizing in the margin of the text, in the same way that Eliot felt paraphrasing a poem was a
sacrilege. Reading is an intimate experience which has nothing to do with highbrow debates about the quality of a
poem (Essays in Criticism):
I like this more than that.
That is better than this.
This means this and that.
That is what this one wrote.
This is not that at all.
This is no good at all.
Some prefer this to that
But frankly this is old hat.
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prances with joy and hurts no one, whether heroes or readers. Whitworths nature is warm and gentle, he likes to
laugh but hates stabbing anyone with his meanings. Parenthood is a major force of his lines and his poems about
childhood are incredibly rewarding:
Now daughter, hear your father. He
Is wise. At least he ought to be:
No money, lots of books, a little beard, you may be sure of it.
So heed the advice he offers you.
It is the best that he can do.
Too soon you'll go to school, and for
A dozen years and maybe more,
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The Complete Poetical Works of Phoebe Flood is the most satisfying book written through the eyes of a child
since A.A. Milne. Each new poem is a wonderful experience. It shows technical skill, endless sympathy with the
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Hate my family,
got no friends.
Ill sit here till
the Universe ends
Or I starve to death.
It all depends.
Then Ill be dead,
dead and rotten,
Less than a blot thats
been well blotten,
Less than a teddy bear
thats been forgotten.
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kingdom come.
They can all go
kiss my bum.
Bums a sort of swearing.
People shouldnt swear.
I wont go to heaven but
I dont care.
I dont care.
I dont care.
Ill sit here and swear.
So there!
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BIBLIOGRAPHY
PRIMARY SOURCES
DANNIE ABSE (22 September 1923)
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As Dan Kavanagh:
Duffy, 1980. Fiddle City, 1981. Putting the Boot In, 1985. Going to the Dogs, 1987 (All in The Duffy Omnibus,
Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1991.)
4
MALCOLM BRADBURY (7 September 1932-2000)
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of
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Fiction
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Criticism
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The Storms, Macmillan, London, 1968 Mortal Fire, Macmillan, London, 1970
Mortal Fire: Selected Poems, Agenda Editions, London,1976
Cross Channel, Hippopotamus Press, Frome, 1977
One Another, Agenda Editions, London/Carcanet New Press, Manchester, 1978
Too Much of Water, Agenda Editions, London, 1983
A Set of Darts: Epigrams for the Nineties (with W.S. Milne and Robert Richardson), Big Little Poem Books, Grimsby,
1990
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1999
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MIMI KHALVATI (28 April 1944)
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Documents Relating to the Sentimental Agents in the Volyen Empire (Canopus in Argos Series), Cape, 1983
If the Old Could... (published as 'The Diaries of Jane Somers'), Michael Joseph, 1984
The Good Terrorist, Cape, 1985
Prisons We Choose to Live Inside, Cape, 1987
The Wind Blows Away Our Words, Pan, 1987
The Fifth Child, Cape, 1988
A Doris Lessing Reader, Cape, 1989
African Laughter, HarperCollins, 1992
London Observed: Stories and Sketches, HarperCollins, 1992
Under My Skin, HarperCollins, 1994
Spies I Have Known and Other Stories, CollinsEducational, 1995
Love, Again, Flamingo, 1996
Walking in the Shade: Volume II of My Autobiography 1949-1962, HarperCollins, 1997
Mara and Dann: An Adventure, HarperCollins, 1999
Ben, in the World, Flamingo, 2000
The Sweetest Dream, Flamingo, 2001
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Literary criticism
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For children
Once There Were Dragons: A Book of Riddles in Words and Pictures ( with Mary Norman ), Deutsch, 1979
Boo to a Goose, Peterloo, 1987
The Mad Parrot's Countdown, Peterloo, 1990
Catching the Spider, Blackie, 1990
The Conjuror's Rabbit, Blackie, 1992
Hot Air, Hodder, 1996
Copy Cat ( with Bee Willey ), Kingfisher, 1997
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Learning to Swim and other stories, New York: Washington Square Press, 1986
Out of this World, London: Viking Press, 1988.
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CRITICAL BIBLIOGRAPHY
Bradbury, Malcolm, The Modern British Novel, Penguin Books, 1993
Bradbury, Malcolm, ed., The Novel Today, Fontana/ Collins, 1977
Bradbury, Malcolm, Mensonge, Arena, London, 1989
Bradbury, Malcolm, Possibilities, Essays on the State of the Novel,
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1. Modern Lyrical Scenarios (From T.S. Eliot to Paul Valry), Bucharest University Press, 1983
2. T. S. Eliot An Author for All Seasons, Bucharest University Press, 1984/ Paideia, 1997
3. British Literary Desperadoes at the Turn of the Millennium,ALL Publishing House, Bucharest, 1999
4. Alan Brownjohn and the Desperado Age, BUP, 2003
5. The Desperado Age: British Literature at the Start of the Third Millennium, BUP, 2004
HANDBOOKS
1. English with a Key, West Publishing House, Timisoara, 1993, revised and reprinted by Teora, Bucharest, 19962003
2. English with a Choice, Teora, Bucharest, 2001
3. English in Style, Univers Enciclopedic, 2002
4. English with a Key, 2, Teora, 2005
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4. Marin Sorescu : The Past Perfect of Flight, with Adam J. Sorkin, The Romanian Cultural Institute Publishing
House, 2004
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