Picked this up at the Delhi Book Fair this year, where it was lying among a few forgotten poetry collections. I'm glad. At least someone knew John Burnside is a poet, and that someone had stacked this among books of verse.
This is a slow, sometimes sad, sometimes hopeless, but always beautiful book about madness, depression and the voices we hear in our heads. The voices John Burnside hears are different from what you and me hear; he is a lunatic, a drunk, an addict. And hence the words that he writes are different too - heartfelt, soulful prose.
This is a story of trying to save oneself, but not knowing how, and losing the battle, again and again and again. In trying to make something 'normal' out of himself, John Burnside tries to get himself to join the world of the middle class, blue-collar workforce, with brick homes and solid families and stable relationships. But all he finds is chaos, even in the make-believe middle class world, a place which he believed was calm and 'everyday'. It is not. It is as fucked up as his own head is, and this plunges him even more into his madness.
The book is made up of his experiences, imaginings and thoughts as he tries, hard, to make a life out of what he has. And his words evoke the beauty of simple moments that would otherwise be just incidents lost to time, things we wouldn't think about or reflect on later. The girl who looks at him once, talks to him a few times and dies. The schoolgirl who befriends him, falls in love with him, who he loses, and finds again only to have her disown him, and send him off into a freefalling breakdown.
The passage I loved most is John's visit to the States on his job, and his description of the 'American Night' as something to be smelled, felt and experienced. This was almost a tribute to Kerouac, and for me that was symbolic.
Because Kerouac was mad too, in a very mad way.
Last Sunday, when I read the bulk of the book, I was drunk, and far away from home in a new city with nothing to hold on to, I found myself depressed and lonely - a feeling of utter melancholy Burnside did nothing to dispel. But it was in that state, drunk and cold in the middle of the night under a dying lamp in my small balcony, that I was able to withstand the weight of the beautiful, poetic prose Burnside was throwing at me.
I was able to understand that it is in the small hours, when the rest of the world sleeps and shadows seem to conspire against you and form images that don't exist and you think about things that haven't happened, that you know.
You know that in a way, you are mad too.