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NEW AUTHORS SHOWCASE
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17-11-08 6M p3 |
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Mortal Coil by Robin Yates |
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Synopsis ‘Mortal Coil’ is a novel in three parts written in three different but interlinked voices. It deals with the life of an ordinary man who is blessed/cursed with a creative force. The first part entitled ‘Frescoes’ has a prologue and epilogue in which a teacher muse instructs a pupil on the role of the modern muse and inhabits the mind of the protagonist, Lionel, for the year 1965 as an example. The story itself is chronological, but is also a ‘stream of consciousness’ melding the thoughts of Lionel and his cerebral muse in a style that is sometimes homage to the style of a variety of Sixties fiction writers. Lionel is a twenty year old art student trying to make sense of his creative drive and life in general. There are naďve attempts by Lionel to be an artist, a poet, playwright, novelist and philosopher. This period in his life comes to an end when he is stabbed. Part two is entitled ‘And a Darkness Fell Over the Land’ in which the now forty something Lionel recounts his reluctant experiences in a surrealistic whirlwind of political intrigue and violence. The third part, called simply ‘Diary’ is written in journal form by Lionel’s much younger partner, Mandy, when Lionel is sixty. The reader sees Lionel’s old themes and obsessions re-emerge through Mandy’s eyes and the end has a twist in which the reader learns something about Lionel that neither he nor Mandy will ever know. The whole book, but particularly part one, is enriched with literary and artistic references. Despite certain dark moments in this novel, it is essentially humorous and should provide the reader with a chortle or two.
Frescoes. First Chronicle - The Muse’s Story ‘Who is Lionel?’ the student muse asks. ‘Lionel is a hero.’ ‘In what context?’ ‘These pages.’ ‘No more?’ ‘No more!’ ‘Why tell his story?’ ‘Why not? He is as entitled as anyone else to have a story and a context.’ ‘What kind of hero is he?’ ‘Well, he’s not a traditional hero – he never did anything swashbuckling or changed the world with his moral conviction and he is certainly not the anti-hero in disguise. He doesn’t have a prominent feature like Mahlke’s ‘mouse in Grass’s novella (except perhaps his eyebrows). His conversation is often trite, his perceived wit often exaggerated (yet sometimes obscure). He is selfish, immature and has little profundity about him as far as I can ascertain. His only claim to heroism, and I’m stretching this a bit, is that he survived from his birth to his death.’ ‘What else about him?’ ‘Don’t let us pigeonhole him. You may have noticed that in the very brief description of him so far, Lionel is beginning to look like a confused mass of traits and thoughts - and, of course, he’s not alone in this.’ ‘You mean he’s a sort of Everyman?’ ‘How dare you suggest it! But you are right – he is everybody and yet only himself.’ ‘Hasn’t that been observed about humankind before?’ ‘Of course it has! And every important -and tuppence ha’penny - philosopher, painter, playwright, author and politician from cavemen to Einstein have all thought how profound and original their thoughts and musings were. But has a book been written about Lionel before?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Answer? Never. I’m not making excuses. Even Lionel at the age of eight sat up in bed at night with Eureka-like emotions, because of a superb joke he had created and crafted whilst lying in the semi-darkness of his bedroom. Imagine his horror to hear the same joke he had honed and perfected in his mind emitting from the ‘Take It From Here’ programme on the radio the following Sunday. And, come to think of it, he was, like Archimedes before him, in the bath (a zinc bath set in front of a roaring fire). Oh the crushing irony! He had not been aware, then, of the bitter realities of his smallness in the nature of things. His soul and voice simultaneously cried out, “I thought of that joke: it’s mine!” not realising that Jimmy Edward’s scriptwriter had had his Eureka moment, too.’ ‘How do we get to know Lionel?’ ‘We don’t – not properly. But let’s press on shall we and see how far we get. You see, humans deserve a muse if they want one and I am Lionel’s muse. I am not your traditional muse, more a source of inspiration for creativity - musa or mousa of the ancient world still, but with a more fluid profile. I seem, also, in Lionel’s case to have taken on the another connotation of muse – a source of abstraction and time wasting. That is not my intention, but that is what Lionel does with my hints and prompts. Of course he doesn’t know it, but I appear in many guises to help him out. I am in people, in objects, in landscapes and, of course, I also occupy a small part of his mind, but I cannot force myself upon him; that is not a muse’s function. No, he must seek me and draw from me wherever he is able. ‘For instructive purposes, I have selected what I consider to be a formative segment of Lionel’s life; a patchy fresco from the period September 1965 to Summer 1966. In this we shall see, being uniquely ‘close’ to Lionel, how thoughts and events shaped him.’
‘His mind is in a constant ferment. Half conscious of his folly, in his pride On all the joys of earth he wants to feed, And pluck from heaven the brightest star. He searches high and low, and yet however He roams, his heart returns dissatisfied.’ (‘Faust’)
Fresco Panel 1. Sweat torrented down his body and was sucked in by parasitic clothing – particularly under the crotch. ‘Jesus save me,’ he teethed between gasps. His arms may as well have been ropes knotted to the suitcase handles for all the life he felt in them. Along Shakespeare Street: Gothic decadence on one side; slums and a synagogue on the other. Dirt collected in drifts on the uneven slabs. Overstatement of litter, sparsely punctuated by dog shit and used contraceptives. On up to the college, crossing the road using the safety of the zebra stripes and getting chased back by a red, white side flash, spot lamp collection on wheels. Bastard! And up the steps to enrol. A pair of stocking tops (with a good inch of black suspender) was moving up five steps in front of him. Good child-bearing hips his granddad would have said and big up front judging by the position and strain of the bra back, black through the gossamer blouse. Sex mad Lionel! ‘Excuse me,’ and he caught up with her (he was right), ‘do you know where we enrol?’ The face was caked in make up. The mouth moved briefly from behind the mask. ‘Yes.’ He raised an eyebrow (the right one that brought in the brass on the first beat of the allegro) and a quizzical smile. ‘Good. Perhaps you’re going that way yourself?’ ‘I might,’ A little smirk and a London accent you could cut with a knife. ‘Then that being so, Ma’m’selle, perhaps we may make the journey together,’ he enunciated with a flourish and struck what he assumed to be the appropriate cavalier pose. And the stilettos rang like hooves on a cobbled inn yard. And the highwayman came riding, riding, riding up to the old inn door. His crepe soles padded and squeaked beside her along the corridor. The ‘Alfie’ style chat, always appropriate to this mode of introduction, evolved as it always did. ‘Where do you come from, then?’ ‘Lewisham.’ Mock surprise. ‘That’s in London isn’t it?’ Nod. ‘I’m usually good on accents, but I didn’t detect anything there.’ And he winced in case his patronising ploy hadn’t come off. ‘Oh, but I’ve got a dreadful accent. You must have noticed.’ It had come off…….hadn’t it….. or was she playing the game? ‘No,’ he said and then the eyebrows again – both up for strings and percussion at the final crescendo. Through the doorless gap into the studio. Suppressed hubbub. Eyes flicking round the motley faces and body shapes, the varying hairstyles and clothing and the untidy suitcase, rucksack and easel paraphernalia; but not for long. Those eyes soon glided to the art work on the walls and in other parts of the studio. Bandwagon! Fashionable! Mannerist! On his interview there had been no tour of the college and he had seen only a few pieces of work from the commercial art department. What had he let himself in for? He dropped his suitcases in the doorway and lead dropped into his stomach. It wasn’t just the trite stuff on the walls, nor the strangeness of being away from home for the first time in a strange city, it was something more, but he couldn’t think what it might be…. |