I’m mixed on the book. First off, I am not especially enamored of a narrative where the author has the characters tell each other the story. It is too removed for me – I prefer a more direct tale. On the other hand, it is one of those rare books in which something completely horrific is told incredibly beautifully. I was reminded of Elie Wiesel’s Night. I thoroughly appreciated the author’s skill.
However, these comments only apply to the first two sections of the book. You see, the book is both a short novel and a collection of three short stories. The first two – A Bar of Shadow and The Seed and the Sower – are tightly connected. The third, though a continuation of the visit, is so very different in terms of style and content, and especially purpose that I almost didn’t finish it. He should have stuck to analyzing men. He doesn’t know women at all and his condescension infuriates me. For example:
It was for me a sign of how greatly women long, in their deepest being, to help men to bring up into the light of day what is uncertain, fearful and secret within them. So deep is this instinct that they tend to be less afraid of the unpleasant facts of human nature than we are, and to mistrust profoundly only that which shuns the light of truth within us. No matter how unpleasant our secret of how awful the consequences of self-revelation many be for them, all that is best in woman feels triumphant because of the act of trust that makes emergence of the secret possible. (171-72)
Argh!
Quotes that caught my eye
I seemed to move as appropriately to my environment as does a gilt-edged fish with its silky swish in an amber sea. (45)
But I was shackled not so much to my good looks as to what people, after seeing me, first imagined and then through their imaginations compelled me to be…. Yet I was not Narcissus-bound to any lilied reflection of my physical body. I never saw myself as good-looking. I have stared often enough in mirrors and shop windows but not with pride, only furtively, as if afraid of seeing also in the reflection what I felt myself to be. For, despite the plausible object evidence to the contrary, I have known always that I was also an ugly person. I knew that what others found to attractive was only an outer aspect of something greater to which both it and this other ugliness were equally and irrevocably joined. In some mysterious way I was conscious that there was never one but always a pai of us, always a set of Siamese twins sitting down nightly to sup at the round-table of myself, a pair of brothers designed to nourish and sustain, yet also inexplicably estranged and constantly denying each other…. Like the slow gleam behind the glassy surface of a particular pool which used to lie in our black bush-veld wood like a wedding ring in the palm of a Negro’s hand. (46-48)
I wish I could say why, but the discomforts of the spirit are beyond reason. Suffering is only a stroke of Time’s implacable Excalibur dividing meaning from meaninglessness. (48)
Finally, when the rough old greatcoat of the earth was turned inside out and its antique lining lying velvet in the sun,… (51)
Fever is Time grown strange wings, the mind feathered to range great distances between an anguished brittle moment in the present and one’s first drop into being. (113)
And yet now that He had come the occasion was so ordinary that I was not surprised that He was not recognized. How hard to learn that our own brief wonder is not worked in heaven but in the grains of sand at our feet; that miracle is not in the stars but in the fearful flesh and blood piled on the moon-bone beneath our own shrinking skin. The men now huddled about Him could not see the miracle for, in their fear, they were looking too far or too high.
…………..
It was therefore no surprise to me that instead of answering the invitation directly, he asked instead with some suddenness. ‘But why are you not all here?’
‘Indeed, we are all here,’ one of them replied.
He shook His head decisively, answering, ‘Judas is not here.’
The amazement on their faces was great partly, perhaps, because of the implication in tone that He wished Judas to be there; and also, perhaps, because He evidently did not seem to know fo Judas’s fate which was by now common knowledge throughout the land.
Then, in my fever, I saw one of them stand slowly to his feet and answer, ‘But surely … Master … you know Judas is dead. He hanged himself.’
Both by his action, words and tone I knew that at last revelation had come to that questioner.
At this the Resurrected One turned His back on the speakers and spoke out clearly yet with anguish. ‘This cannot be true. If I fail in this I fail in all else besides.’ He looked up. ‘Father this life which You have set beyond men needs Judas jus6t as it needs Me. His deed, too, is redeemed in the love which exacted it of him.’ (114-15)
The day came so swiftly that night could have been the mere showdown of a cloud passing across the sun. (115)
Had I not learnt lately that death is not something that happens at the end of our life? It is imprisonment in one moment of time, confinement in one sharp uncompromising deed or aspect or ourselves. Death is exclusion from renewal of our present-day selves. Neither heaven nor hell are hereafter. Hell is time arrested within and refusing to join in the movement of wind and stars. Heaven is a boulder rock unrolled to let new life out: it is man restored to all four of his seasons rounding for eternity. (118)
“Yonoi intervened!” Lawrence exclaimed incredulously. He half-whistled and then asked what seemed the most inconsequent of questions: “Celliers was very fair in colouring, wasn’t he?” (122)
He was a striking person we both agreed, perhaps the most handsome Japanese we had ever seen. He had an ascetic, almost a priestlike face, round head and an aquiline nose. His eyes were well spaced and though slanted in the manner of his race, were brilliantly compelling. He was also taller than most and straightly made. He is the tidiest Japanese officer I have ever known too, his uniform always well cut and spotless and his jackboots polished and shining. He carried himself with a conscious air of distinction which most of us put down to vanity….one understood nothing about Yonio and his people unless one had some intimation of the deep moon-honour always beckoning them in the great darkness that surrounded their overcrowded little lives. (123)
Lawrence would remember those sturdy native soldiers from the island of Ambon for we had had many of them in prison with us. They were the finest of all the soldiers in the old Netherlands East Indies Army, devout Christians, and born mercenaries in the best sense of the word. They and the Menadonese, so akin to them, were almost the only Colonial troops there who had seen action. (128)
… and each night as the darkness fell they sang their sombre Dutch hymns. (128)
… he went deeper into that dense silent jungle of the southern Sunda land guarded by giant and reeking volcanoes lazily blowing fumes like cigar smoke into the faces of the great white thunderclouds striding the high sky above them. (129)
… Celliers had explained to me that he had come to realize that life had no meaning unless one was obedient to one’s awareness of it. (130)
In dealing with peoples whose language one cannot speak one’s physical appearance can be all important. And the Japanese have a natural eye for beauty of all kinds. I can see clearly how a fellow of “Straffer’s” looks would have set their imaginations in motion. (133)
… I noticed something about this storm that before I had never fully realized: the strange harmony at the heart of it. At all sorts of moments, sometimes in the lowest trough of the wind when the voice of the storm was little more than a sigh, or again on some great Everest crest when the individual sounds were torn alive and screaming from the immense trees thrashing in our tender, elegiac English earth, all the many and various noises would suddenly blend and a moment or two of pure music would float over the heaving waters of darkness and chaos. Sometimes the music had a twang-like accompaniment as if plucked from a great harp; sometimes it was like a rounded blast of Rolands’s horn summoning the spirit of Man to turn about and stand; at others it was a scamper up and down the scales. But in its most gentle moments the sounds resembled the opening notes of a theme on the Shaku-hachi flute of Hara’s own people, which sings not only the song willed upon it by the player but also out of its nature of the fountain of green which once surged up through its native shoots of bamboo. (167-68)
The laughter and defiance had gone from the red faces of the gin and beer-swilling men like the text of the previous day’s lesson which had been wiped off the school blackboard by some caretaker in the night to make room for the lesson to come. (180-81)
In a state of heightened perception brought about in him by that immense world-drama so swiftly sweeping to its climax, the jungle appeared like a tiger crouched patient, watchful and at ease in the night, ready to spring on the village the moment the back of man was turned. (187)