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A Division of the Light
It begins on a quiet city street. A young woman is robbed, with the crime witnessed by a man holding a camera. In the aftermath, victim and voyeur meet.It ends six months later, by which point both their lives - and the way they choose to live them - have changed irrevocably.This is the story of what happened in between.
- GenresLiterary Fiction
289 pages, Kindle Edition
First published March 1, 2012
6 people are currently reading
61 people want to read
About the author
Christopher Burns
61 books6 followersNARRATOR:
Christopher Burns has performed in the London and Broadway performances of Stones in His Pockets and Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf. He holds a Master of Fine Arts in acting from NYU and a Bachelor of Arts in comparative literature from Colorado College. In addition to Broadway, Christopher has appeared onstage in numerous New York City and regional shows as well as on TV and film.
(source: Dreamscape)
Librarian Note: There is more than one author in the GoodReads database with this name.
Christopher Burns has performed in the London and Broadway performances of Stones in His Pockets and Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf. He holds a Master of Fine Arts in acting from NYU and a Bachelor of Arts in comparative literature from Colorado College. In addition to Broadway, Christopher has appeared onstage in numerous New York City and regional shows as well as on TV and film.
(source: Dreamscape)
Librarian Note: There is more than one author in the GoodReads database with this name.
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Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews
March 10, 2012
This novel is exquisitely written - a masterclass in understated narrative. It's a clever book and, for the reader, a difficult book. A Division of the Light is not about plot - more about ideas - and the characters move on wires manipulated by the necessity of developing those ideas, playing out the central premise of the novel.
Are our lives controlled - are events 'meant' - or are we at the mercy of random forces? When Alice Fell decides to walk down a different street and is mugged, she is photographed by Gregory Pharaoh, also there by chance on his way home from an assignment. It is the beginning of an obsession, and a collision with the elemental forces that recur like motifs throughout the book. The patterns in the narrative echo the patterns of light Gregory plays with in his photographs. How much of what we see is merely illusion? How do we know what is true?
This is a difficult feat for a writer to bring off - a novel of ideas, a narrative of patterns, dependent on the interplay of three characters who are essentially unlikeable. Alice is a manipulative ball-breaker who uses her sexual power over men and always stops short of commitment. Her boyfriend Thomas is so lacking in self-confidence and motivation he has made Alice the whole of his world and in so doing, undermined any security he had left. Gregory is selfish, egotistical, dispassionate, used to getting exactly what he wants, and holding the world at the other end of his camera lens. His values are pictorial values.
The omniscient narrator maintains a distance, wide angle, occasionally zooming in on some small detail - a triangle of light at the base of Alice's throat, the way lead melts and flows like lava from a burning building, the way shadow outlines the anonymous bones in an ossuary. The narrator, like the photographer, controls what we see. There are continual parallels between photography and writing. Is it legitimate for Gregory to photograph his dying wife? We feel immediate revulsion, but is that any worse than writing about it? We need some kind of record to stave off the terrible anonymity of death.
This is the question Alice faces in the ossuary where she goes to help Gregory set up a photo-shoot. Initially disturbed by the collection of bones, she comes to view it as 'a library of the dead, an assembly of untitled books whose pages had all been ripped out and scattered. It was both a memorial and a prophecy. Death was an inescapable solvent that stripped away personality, history and identity. These people, whoever they were, whichever sex they had been, had left nothing behind but their bones. Their lives had vanished without an entry in a ledger, or name on a gravestone, and, most cruelly of all, without an image'.
At the end of the novel I was full of admiration - the technique is faultless, the narrative arc perfectly resolved, but it left me curiously unsatisfied. I would have liked passion, to have warmed to one or other of the characters. But that is a purely personal response. As Gregory remarks in the book 'passion is no guarantor of truth'. I suspect that the novel fulfils its author's intentions and it isn't up me to wish it any different.
Are our lives controlled - are events 'meant' - or are we at the mercy of random forces? When Alice Fell decides to walk down a different street and is mugged, she is photographed by Gregory Pharaoh, also there by chance on his way home from an assignment. It is the beginning of an obsession, and a collision with the elemental forces that recur like motifs throughout the book. The patterns in the narrative echo the patterns of light Gregory plays with in his photographs. How much of what we see is merely illusion? How do we know what is true?
This is a difficult feat for a writer to bring off - a novel of ideas, a narrative of patterns, dependent on the interplay of three characters who are essentially unlikeable. Alice is a manipulative ball-breaker who uses her sexual power over men and always stops short of commitment. Her boyfriend Thomas is so lacking in self-confidence and motivation he has made Alice the whole of his world and in so doing, undermined any security he had left. Gregory is selfish, egotistical, dispassionate, used to getting exactly what he wants, and holding the world at the other end of his camera lens. His values are pictorial values.
The omniscient narrator maintains a distance, wide angle, occasionally zooming in on some small detail - a triangle of light at the base of Alice's throat, the way lead melts and flows like lava from a burning building, the way shadow outlines the anonymous bones in an ossuary. The narrator, like the photographer, controls what we see. There are continual parallels between photography and writing. Is it legitimate for Gregory to photograph his dying wife? We feel immediate revulsion, but is that any worse than writing about it? We need some kind of record to stave off the terrible anonymity of death.
This is the question Alice faces in the ossuary where she goes to help Gregory set up a photo-shoot. Initially disturbed by the collection of bones, she comes to view it as 'a library of the dead, an assembly of untitled books whose pages had all been ripped out and scattered. It was both a memorial and a prophecy. Death was an inescapable solvent that stripped away personality, history and identity. These people, whoever they were, whichever sex they had been, had left nothing behind but their bones. Their lives had vanished without an entry in a ledger, or name on a gravestone, and, most cruelly of all, without an image'.
At the end of the novel I was full of admiration - the technique is faultless, the narrative arc perfectly resolved, but it left me curiously unsatisfied. I would have liked passion, to have warmed to one or other of the characters. But that is a purely personal response. As Gregory remarks in the book 'passion is no guarantor of truth'. I suspect that the novel fulfils its author's intentions and it isn't up me to wish it any different.
December 12, 2012
A woman is mugged on a quiet London street; her handbag is stolen, she is knocked over and a photographer captures her image as she falls. But is this just a chance encounter? The woman, Alice Fell, believes that the moment is significant but the photographer, Gregory Pharoah, is a rationalist; he doesn’t believe in fate and yet he is strangely drawn to the enigmatic Alice. As their relationship develops it has a butterfly-effect on the lives of those around them and sets in motion a chain of events that have spectacular consequences.
The book’s cover image is very striking, it captures a woman falling, or rising—the ambiguous moment referred to in the quote below:
Gregory shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you want to find in those shots, but you’ll be disappointed. In one of them you seem to be lifting from the ground rather than dropping to it, but that’s an illusion. Perspective and body posture and the fall of light just make it seem that way. There’s nothing unusual or bizarre or inexplicable about it. Take it from me.’
The protagonists’ names are clearly symbolic—they are captions to the portraits. Initially ‘Alice Fell’ is ambiguous, is it a name or a verb? It implies a spiritual fall from grace or falling down a philosophical rabbit hole, as much as the actual physical fall that initially captures Gregory Pharoah’s attention. Later on there is an allusion to the literary reference –‘Alice Fell (or, Poverty)’ is also a poem by Wordsworth about an orphan girl who weeps because her cloak is caught up and destroyed in the wheels of the poet’s carriage. ‘Gregory Pharoah’ (revealed to be an assumed name) is a transparently aspirational nom de plume. It speaks of a desire for power, for immortality and conversely exposes the things that he fears most of all—insignificance and death.
There are obvious parallels to be drawn between this book and Ian McEwan’s Enduring Love. Both books open with a dramatic inciting incident—a robbery and a balloon accident. The men involved both feel some sense of guilt, of being complicit in the incident even though they did not cause it—Pharoah, because he photographs it and McEwan’s protagonist, because he lets go of the rope. And both incidents lead to an obsessive relationship. Burns’ ending is similarly dramatic, though not quite as bloody as McEwan’s, but apart from these plot devices the styles are very different. McEwan’s language is lyrical; the words themselves add a sense of mystery to the scenes he describes, Burns’ language is plainer but the tone is philosophical. There is a photographic quality to Burns’ prose. The descriptions are evocative but the writing does not call attention to itself—there are no visible brush-strokes. The characterisation is revealed through stylised portraits and the perspective allows the two main characters to attain mythic proportions, they become archetypal—dare I say reminiscent of The Fountainhead, although their human weaknesses are ultimately revealed.
Though the action is told from the perspective of both of the protagonists, it is definitely Pharoah’s story. Pharoah, the photographer, is the one who is transformed as he is exposed, whereas Alice, the subject, remains mysterious, portrayed in shallow depth of field. Her background is never clarified, there are allusions but we are given no details about her past life. One could argue that, as a character, she is not as finely-drawn as Pharoah; we cannot quite comprehend the fascination she evokes in him. Pharoah shields himself behind his camera and documents life to avoid having to actually live it. We watch his progression out from behind the camera and into the focus of this narrative.
The story is presented in snapshots; it has a primarily visual rather than narrative emphasis. There are recurring motifs; sacred places, bolts of lightning, the contrasts of life and death, faith and doubt, light and dark. It is a study in chiaroscuro—a juxtaposition of light and shade to construct meaning and substance. The surreal climax could be described as a deus ex machina moment, but in context it is elevated into a philosophical question, not just a literary device. It does require the reader to suspend a large amount of disbelief, but no more so than any McEwan plotline.
As a work of art this novel is stylish and confidently framed—a compelling composition.
The book’s cover image is very striking, it captures a woman falling, or rising—the ambiguous moment referred to in the quote below:
Gregory shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you want to find in those shots, but you’ll be disappointed. In one of them you seem to be lifting from the ground rather than dropping to it, but that’s an illusion. Perspective and body posture and the fall of light just make it seem that way. There’s nothing unusual or bizarre or inexplicable about it. Take it from me.’
The protagonists’ names are clearly symbolic—they are captions to the portraits. Initially ‘Alice Fell’ is ambiguous, is it a name or a verb? It implies a spiritual fall from grace or falling down a philosophical rabbit hole, as much as the actual physical fall that initially captures Gregory Pharoah’s attention. Later on there is an allusion to the literary reference –‘Alice Fell (or, Poverty)’ is also a poem by Wordsworth about an orphan girl who weeps because her cloak is caught up and destroyed in the wheels of the poet’s carriage. ‘Gregory Pharoah’ (revealed to be an assumed name) is a transparently aspirational nom de plume. It speaks of a desire for power, for immortality and conversely exposes the things that he fears most of all—insignificance and death.
There are obvious parallels to be drawn between this book and Ian McEwan’s Enduring Love. Both books open with a dramatic inciting incident—a robbery and a balloon accident. The men involved both feel some sense of guilt, of being complicit in the incident even though they did not cause it—Pharoah, because he photographs it and McEwan’s protagonist, because he lets go of the rope. And both incidents lead to an obsessive relationship. Burns’ ending is similarly dramatic, though not quite as bloody as McEwan’s, but apart from these plot devices the styles are very different. McEwan’s language is lyrical; the words themselves add a sense of mystery to the scenes he describes, Burns’ language is plainer but the tone is philosophical. There is a photographic quality to Burns’ prose. The descriptions are evocative but the writing does not call attention to itself—there are no visible brush-strokes. The characterisation is revealed through stylised portraits and the perspective allows the two main characters to attain mythic proportions, they become archetypal—dare I say reminiscent of The Fountainhead, although their human weaknesses are ultimately revealed.
Though the action is told from the perspective of both of the protagonists, it is definitely Pharoah’s story. Pharoah, the photographer, is the one who is transformed as he is exposed, whereas Alice, the subject, remains mysterious, portrayed in shallow depth of field. Her background is never clarified, there are allusions but we are given no details about her past life. One could argue that, as a character, she is not as finely-drawn as Pharoah; we cannot quite comprehend the fascination she evokes in him. Pharoah shields himself behind his camera and documents life to avoid having to actually live it. We watch his progression out from behind the camera and into the focus of this narrative.
The story is presented in snapshots; it has a primarily visual rather than narrative emphasis. There are recurring motifs; sacred places, bolts of lightning, the contrasts of life and death, faith and doubt, light and dark. It is a study in chiaroscuro—a juxtaposition of light and shade to construct meaning and substance. The surreal climax could be described as a deus ex machina moment, but in context it is elevated into a philosophical question, not just a literary device. It does require the reader to suspend a large amount of disbelief, but no more so than any McEwan plotline.
As a work of art this novel is stylish and confidently framed—a compelling composition.
April 4, 2012
A novel to be read on many levels. Compelling and surprising. What is real and what is a comfortable fiction we like to present to the world or indeed to our inner selves? Gregory Pharoah, a photographer, is a self-created man who believes he controls his own destiny, yet believes his photographs can reveal hidden truths in his subjects, but that he can keep them under his control. Alice Fell is a woman who believes in fate, yet is coldly practical when she sees an opportunity to progress towards her undefined 'destiny'.
A chance encounter between the two occurs when Alice is the unfortunate victim of a meaningless crime begins a process that catapults Gregory out of his materialistic frame. I won't spoil it for you by revealing too much! An edgy read - some have commented that the characters are unlovable - but Burns does not idealise them, nor find redemption for them. I have read Burns' earlier novels and his short fiction. He doesn't choose the easy way out either as a storyteller or a writer. It is perhaps uncomfortable to come to terms with human qualities that are honestly portrayed. Good and evil are blurred and relative concepts.
The novel is provoking. Burns took risks with it, but his prose is controlled, spare, elegant. His imagery is rich and thematic. He expects the reader to think for him/herself. I am reading it again.
A chance encounter between the two occurs when Alice is the unfortunate victim of a meaningless crime begins a process that catapults Gregory out of his materialistic frame. I won't spoil it for you by revealing too much! An edgy read - some have commented that the characters are unlovable - but Burns does not idealise them, nor find redemption for them. I have read Burns' earlier novels and his short fiction. He doesn't choose the easy way out either as a storyteller or a writer. It is perhaps uncomfortable to come to terms with human qualities that are honestly portrayed. Good and evil are blurred and relative concepts.
The novel is provoking. Burns took risks with it, but his prose is controlled, spare, elegant. His imagery is rich and thematic. He expects the reader to think for him/herself. I am reading it again.
May 9, 2020
A very well written, easy to read journey of discovery. Not the most sympathetic characters, but a gentle telling of an interesting tale. I enjoyed reading this book.
October 11, 2013
At first, I didn't think I was going to enjoy this book. I didn't warm to either of the two main characters and there didn't seem to be a very strong storyline. But it was highly praised by Kazuo Ishiguro, no less, so it must be good - and it is. The more I read, the more I became absorbed and towards the end, I couldn't put it down.
I still don't like Alice - I thought she was arrogant, cruel and manipulative, nor do I have much time for Gregory who is just as bad. I did warm to Cassie and my feelings for Thomas lurched between frustration and sympathy.
The book is very cleverly written, and with a surprise twist towards the end which, like Gregory and Alice, I certainly didn't see coming. I can see why Kazuo Ishiguro recommends it - so do I.
I still don't like Alice - I thought she was arrogant, cruel and manipulative, nor do I have much time for Gregory who is just as bad. I did warm to Cassie and my feelings for Thomas lurched between frustration and sympathy.
The book is very cleverly written, and with a surprise twist towards the end which, like Gregory and Alice, I certainly didn't see coming. I can see why Kazuo Ishiguro recommends it - so do I.
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews