Perfect Tense

by Michael Bracewell

"Work is a blessing", says the anonymous narrator of Michael Bracewell's third novel Perfect Tense , although it's hard to see why. Crammed into commuter trains, shackled to a world of plexi-glass office prints and Ladderex shelving units, Bracewell's character is a man perpetually in the career hinterland. He spends his days--and specifically the day over which the novel's action takes place--in a reverie of shame and regret, a self-styled urban anthropologist, wandering the city in his lunch hour, trying to account for the manifold perversities of the working life. What are glamorous Kate and Simon Grinch up to on the roof of the building? Whatever became of Fat Val or Les's legendary ties, and why do so many young people phrase every sentence as a question? Readers expecting a rollicking read might be surprised by the lack of narrative in this novel, because--as in real office life--precious little happens. But shining like jewels amid the grey carpeting and the inspirational coffee-mug slogans, are Bracewell's observations. Sharp, poignant and funny, this novel lends a wholly fresh perspective to an almost universal experience. The Marks and Spencer sandwich queue, the bleak Fitzrovia pubs where office romances begin and end, the horrors of the leaving-do are all treated to Bracewell's acerbic analysis, rendered almost, but never quite meaningful. Anyone in danger of taking work seriously needs to read this book straightaway. But don't let the boss catch you. -- Matthew Baylis

Genres: Fiction

176 pages, Paperback

First published February 15, 2001

Reviews

[Hux · Rating 5 out of 5]

In my opinion, there are two ways to tell a great existential story; one is to use allegory (I Who Have Never Known Men etc) and the other (a far more difficult method) is to tell the story of the mundane and normal, to explore the bland poison of modern living and ennui by showing us the tedious and the day-to-day. The former produces the most well-known and successful examples of this genre but only because the latter is so hard to do successfully (so many writers get it wrong). They often make the mistake of thinking that because they are dealing with the bland, the boring, the dull, that this means they must incorporate those elements into their writing and produce those specific feelings in the piece. WRONG! It can be done but it requires a style of prose that is both beautiful and accessible, a method of writing which leaves the door open for the protagonist to express their opinions fluidly regarding their observations concerning life. This book was so good in that respect. I loved it. 

The narrator (a middle-aged man) tells us about the various office jobs he has had over the years starting with the first he had in his early twenties. And that's it. We go nowhere else into his life, no family, no hobbies, no future -- only here. He opens the book in the present day (2001) but immediately recollects one of his first office jobs in 1980. This is also where the title Perfect Tense comes from as he jumps around in his narration quite regularly. I also think there might be a slight Perec influence here (Things: a story of the sixties). But anyway... he does a great job of describing that first job, that feeling of being in the grown-up world for the first time, the anxiety and humiliation, the sense of being forced into a life you didn't necessarily want. I immediately identified with the feeling, remembered my own terrible nascent years in employment, and that horrible feeling of throwing those years away on a trivial existence for the sake of something as prosaic as money. The fact that it's the early 80s also makes you instantly know that whatever job he was doing back there is now an irrelevance, a footnote, it means nothing, and the terrible sensation of dread, markedly more pronounced because of this obvious waste of his youth, is exacerbated by the ebbing away of time. It gives you a stark sense of life being a series of banal actions, filing and paperwork, doing reports that ten years from now no-one will care about, attending meetings that twenty years later will amount to nothing, your life, your mind, your being, every inch of your existence, repeatedly squandered on menial tasks and transient moments such as making a coffee for Sandra (a boring woman who has just had a baby called Keith), then doing some photocopying, making small talk, going for lunch (a dry tuna sandwich), or just smiling falsely at people who don't matter to you and, frankly, never will. 

Our narrator maintains his position, here, in this time, whilst taking us back in incremental spurts to parts of his life that have been wasted on banal activities, the late 80s, the 90s, until he finally catches up to himself in the current moment, all his thoughts and utterances focused on the trivial yet dominant quality of working in an office. It's all so bleak... so laughable. To think that we throw our lives away on such things, on this. Yet throughout this pathetic swamp of the mundane, Bracewell's writing is sublime, often elevated to sumptuous levels, his prose majestic and fluid, always full of great poetic notions and language, even when the memory itself is something (as so many of them tend to be) as bland and forgettable as a pair of socks...

Where Les wore silk socks, as diaphanous as a debutante's hosiery, Martin wore grey cotton socks in which the elastic had snapped around their tops, thus lowering them in wrinkled tubes to reveal a patch of hairless flesh, the colour of cold chicken, above each ankle.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: books about boredom, ennui, and the relentless slog of a pointless modern existence should still make your eyes widen as they read a beautiful piece of prose, should still spark a moment of artistry in your soul. Ennui is too interesting to be dull. The book brought to mind two other books. Brian by Jeremy Cooper, in the banal aspects of a wasted life, but also The Plains by Gerald Murnane, in the lyrical prose and nested sentences (which Murnane painfully overdoes (in my opinion) but which Bracewell uses sparingly, until it becomes sincerely quite exquisite). 

So here it is. A book about sending that fax to Steve in Hull, about the commute, about gossiping behind Jill's back, about staring at a wall and wondering where your life went. I just adored this. Beautiful writing about the mundane, about the stark nothing at the heart of a Godless civilisation, about the boredom which is emblematic of modernity. See, it can be done. Magnificent. 

[Tosh · Rating 4 out of 5]

Just following my Bracewell obsession, and this book didn't disappoint me at all. The main subject I guess would be boring. The exact details of working in an office somewhere close to the West End of London. Again, like his other books, you can taste the city by just smelling the page - but beyond that this book is more of a critique on modern life than anythng else. Very detailed and focus on the details, yet never boring. He actually makes boredom somewhat an aesthethic practice.

If Guy Debord was a Londoner, and became an office worker ....well it's almost there, but really Bracewell is an unique writer.

[Jim Coughenour · Rating 4 out of 5]

I can certainly understand the low ratings this book has received from other readers – a whole novel ostensibly about the ennui and minute degradations of office life – the petty politics, mind-numbing routines and ugly spaces where the most haunting creature is a spider plant. A tone poem of alienation, etc. But for me the book had the opposite effect. I found its desolation weirdly moving – I'm tempted to describe it as a demotic version of Fernando Pessoa's Book of Disquiet – which is admittedly my desperate attempt to convey its dark poetry, the way in which something bleakly ordinary can evoke a sense of the numinous. Its final pages intimate a genuine (very sad) epiphany.

For me, this book is a minor classic.

[Marcus Hobson · Rating 5 out of 5]

Perfect Tense was first published in 2001 and is set in and around the City of London. It is the sort of book I would have loved when it first came out because I was working in the very same streets and feeling the very same emotions at the drab familiarity of everyday life in a variety of city offices. Sadly I never discovered it at the time and twenty years later, when I am working a world away from those streets, I now love how it captures a particular time and place – a sensation not just of the monotony of office life, but the smells and textures too.
The book begins with the sentence: ‘Work is a blessing.’ And then continues ‘Because worse than work, far worse, is not working.’ Our unnamed narrator is not talking about those who sleep in parks or get laid off when they have a family to feed. ‘I’m talking about the rest of us, the ones with jobs and wages, who still manage to spend half of the time wishing that we could blow the whole caboodle shy high, and the other half simply feeling tired.’

He recalls a moment in the summer of 1980 when he was crossing London Bridge on his way to his job near the Monument, and suddenly decides to bunk off for the day. He then describes the people alongside him:

All around me, the workers were streaming into the City. I was always fascinated by the different speeds at which they walked. Their lives were in their walks, if you know what I mean. Some strolled, disdainful of a rush which questioned their status, or demonstrating an ease which seemed distinctly continental; others hurried at a frantic pace, their jackets over one arm and the sweat on their shoulders already making their shirts stick to their backs. These were the ones who sometimes talked to themselves as they rushed along, as though they were rehearsing their defence for some accusation which was going to be hurled at them the moment they got into the office.
Then there were those who actually marched over the bridge: the officer class of the old guard, the umbrella-tappers who bore themselves erect, staring ahead with watery eyes which seemed to reveal only the dullest intelligence, but conveyed an air of complete disapproval of anything which didn’t belong to their world.

The absolute joy of this book comes from the brief short descriptions that Bracewell seems to conjure up from nowhere. Here he is describing the 1960s that he missed:

…a strong smell of sackcloth and damp wicker baskets. A smell which seemed to define what I imagined to be the audience at free festivals, where girls in long skirts rolled carefully assembled joints with the same attention to detail that their great-grandmothers most probably applied to embroidery samplers; and beside these girls, young men with lank hair, thick sideburns, and child-like faces. All beneath a bone-white sky.

The descriptions of the characters that the narrator encounters in his first City job, in a department called simply ‘Waste’, are also outstanding. They are long but well worth quoting in full for the joy they contain. This is Les:

Les was tall and dapper. His black hair, which was always stiff with lacquer, was combed in a high wave over his head and cut to reveal just the lobes of his ears. It was like a helmet of hair, from the bulge of the swept-back fringe at the front to the heavy line of the cut across the collar at the back – a ‘Boston’ back, in fact; and Les’s narrow brown head, with its almond shaped-eyes the colour of espresso coffee, and his long nose underlined by what used to be called a ‘Zapata’ moustache, always looked as though it would move independently of his helmet of lacquered hair – in the comic tradition of loose toupees. Les was by far and away the most elegant of the young men in Waste: a cubist arrangement of greens and browns, at severe angles to each other. His moss green trousers had a razor crease running down from their front pleats, and his chocolate brown shirts were always freshly ironed from collar to tail. He wore double cuffs, with outrageous silver links which were set with polished amethysts or some smooth brown stone called a tiger’s eye, which looked like a buffed humbug. His thin-soled shoes were myriad, from snakeskin pumps the coloured of jellied eels to little black patent leather dress shoes with a tiny gold chain across the instep.
But it was Les’s ties that were the signature, so to speak, on his masterpiece of autofiction. Always wide-knotted, in a neat, fat lozenge of satin between the rounded collars of his brown shirt, they would change in colour from day to day to cover most shades from mushroom to claret. Some were embroidered with starbursts of silken thread, while others bore muted kaleidoscopes of navy blue shadows. He looked like a Latin American dictator disguised as the crooner on a cruise liner.

There is one more description that I loved – the melancholy of empty places and a sense of lives disdained by time. In this case it is the stationary commuter train just south of the river before it pulls into one of the big terminus buildings. What Bracewell captures perfectly is the noise of silence as all these people wait impatiently for the train to resume its journey, knowing there is nothing that can do to speed things forwards:

Because it was cold when we set off from the suburbs – it is only April, after all – the windows of the carriages were steaming with condensation. Here and there, bored passengers had wiped a space with their palm or sleeve to peer through. Even as they stared down at the bleached cinders, or gazed into the mist, you could feel how the stillness outside had found its way into the carriage. The rustle of a newspaper, a short cough, the sudden snapping open of the locks on a briefcase: all of these sounds were amplified in the silence of our apathy, resignation or impatience. Our huddle of humanity, our mass of scarves and overcoats, polished shoes, handbags, gloves and hangovers, could only defend its dignity by learning how to wait.

The detail of the plot, the different offices and the characters who populate them are to some extent irrelevant. It is the descriptions and the observations which make this little book perfect. Even the cover is brilliantly conceived – a chiaroscuro in the manner of the seventeenth century still life, but look a little closer and all the items on the table are office equipment – the rolladex, the mug of biros and ruler, the spiral bound note book, the paper clips and loose change and even the computer printout paper with the many holes running down both sides. What could at first glance be a lobster is really a seventies telephone with two orange staplers for pincers. Even the table it not what it seems, but in fact an office desk.
A wonderful book which I wish I had found twenty years ago.

[Delphine · Rating 3 out of 5]

This novel has been sitting on my desk for a few months now. Although I finished it a couple of weeks ago, I'm still unable to create a mental picture of the main character. A bored office clerk with no name, an 'anti-hero', grey and bland as can be. "The author did a good job on character development then", one could argue, but I tend to disagree.

The novel depicts office life in the most cruel way: in all its small and irrelevant details, blown up to gigantic proportions by the employees who work there. It is nearly impossible to describe this novel as a 'bad novel'; the small details in setting and atmosphere are absolutely 'right', even to an uncomfortable level.

The protagonist has the irritating habit of analysing his thoughts and emotions so profoundly that they are covered with a greyish layer of dust, stressing the anonymous and meaningless aspects of office life. At times, you get the feeling that you're watching a pathologist at work, carefully dissecting a body:

"I felt a shift in my perception, like a jolt to my nervous system, which was accompanied by the sensation that I had lost my short-term memory. At the same time, I suddenly felt distanced from my surroundings, as though I was seeing everything through a thick sheet of glass. Combined, these effects became a mixture of feelings - panic and emptiness. (...) I began to realize that I could reduce the threathening immensity of my anxiety to one specific apprehension: it felt as though my life had reached critical mass, and that there was simply no room in my being - myself as the embodiment of my consciousness - for any more lived experience."

Sure, this distant way of talking about oneself enhances the feeling of alienation in the novel, but at times it seemed like a perfect cover-up for a writer who has failed to to choose the right words for his protagonist. Nevertheless, well worth reading it. Somewhere in between three and four stars!

[Kris Fernandez-Everett · Rating 4 out of 5]

very well written -- and the observations of the life under glass of the modern office were spot on. I imagine my days at the office as taking place in a sort of diorama, where the setting is real only within the confines of the box. when you move without, it's almost with a listlessness borne as much of the ennui absorbed in the diorama as the overpowering nature of the life outside that proceeded without you. highly recommended.

[Cecily · Rating 2 out of 5]

The musings of a 40-something's wasted office life, more of an observer than a participant. He describes his hobby/ambition as being a "urban anthropologist". Set mostly in 80s/90s London. It captures a mood, but feels as listless as the life described.

[Rowena Macdonald · Rating 5 out of 5]

Loved this. A novella about a very boring day in an office in central London in the mid 90s, in which nothing extraordinary happens, and yet it still manages to be compelling because of the beautiful writing. Will resonate with anyone who has ever worked in an office.

[zunggg · Rating 4 out of 5]

A sospirific, epiphanic psalm of office life, expertly articulating the incoherent pathos of late C20 white-collar drudgery.

[Jonathan Pool · Rating 4 out of 5]

What a terribly saddening story. You would think that a story of a socially awkward introvert in an austere office setting would hardly be fertile ground for a novel. But Michael Bracewell does a fine job. Set in the 1980s this is a throwback to a pre computer age. The ‘threat’ of IT is growing , but by the standards of what the reader knows has happened in forty years since the ‘80s, it seems very inconsequential .
The unnamed narrator works in the “waste” department, at a nameless company in just off Oxford Street (in North Row). Flagship store Selfridges is his sorry lunchtime release as he drifts around the customer sections, aimlessly, and on his own, ducking away should he spy any colleagues from his workplace.
The narrator’s journey to work follows the route of millions of commuters over the years: its unchanging, as the suburban train arrives into London Bridge, his walk to work across London Bridge, past four hundred year old landmarks through the heart of the City of London. It does afford some reflection on beauty (the light reflecting on the River Thames).

The narrator fantasizes about becoming an urban anthropologist, but even in his limited aspirations he is conscious that he continues to fail to establish a persona for himself: “ you can only rehearse your masterpiece for so long ” (97)
He comes up with some prescient observations about central London, and the march of the developers, whose utopia is “Death by Cappuccino”.

As office roles change, and relocations and office layouts change, the grip of a world of IT advances (!)bypasses Maureen. She remains put, and manages her workloads as she always has- a reminder of traditional, manual, analogue, office work.

The (very short) book ends, appropriately, with a reflection on a Jurassic coast beach, far from London, as the ocean erodes and smooths the stones. Each human being is but a tiny footnote in a huge galaxy that has existed over thousands of years.

[Ava Hall · Rating 3 out of 5]

This was hilarious to read from the perspective of someone currently working a corporate 9-5. Thankfully the people I work with aren’t constantly thinking about hooking up in the supply closet or on the roof L O L. There were some really beautiful passages and actually some that surprisingly resonated.

[Eija · Rating 3 out of 5]

En ollenkaan muistanut lukeneeni jo kerran.

[Michael Scott · Rating 2 out of 5]

What would be the right way to convey the non-story of a continuous, draining, boring office routing, where "everyone is totally dedicated to their work" fails and the dread of eating tuna sandwiches "every day, five days a week, for so many years, etc, etc" kicks in? Certainly, not Perfect Tense.

Although Michael Bracewell tries to write about boredom (comparisons with The Book of Disquiet should end here), Perfect Tense turns out to be a boring work of wordiness and participation, and thus fake. This is a bored person who wants to bore others, not a bored person who does not care anymore about anything. The protagonist of this non-narrative keeps on describing---Tolstoy used to do the same, but to good effect---; presumably to make things anodyne, the protagonist keeps using cliches and pompous formulation. To make things worse, there's a lot of past tense in Perfect Tense---would the bored person really care?

Overall, the only thing that saves the book is, for me, the boredom it inspires while reading. Dozing off on your cat's purr, however, is much more rewarding.

[Kristie · Rating 4 out of 5]

Thought provoking. Highly recommend it to those slightly disillusioned about work, career and what these two things mean to us office workers these days. The writing makes you feel like you're really in the head of the main character.

[Martinxo · Rating 2 out of 5]

Despite lavish praise on the cover from Jonathan Coe, David Lode and Morrissey, i put this book down at page 58 and fell promptly asleep.