SUMMARY - As much ebb as flow, things slosh to a halt, and give as much pause for thought as a desire to speed things up. An accomplished follow up to the wonderful 'Rites of Passage'.
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Other reviewers seem divided on whether this represents the tasty filling or the contractual filler in Golding's 'Ends of the Earth' trilogy. I still have book III to read so may come back to this later. Taken as a standalone nautical adventure, though, it holds water.
Golding himself doesn't seem to have had much confidence, at least based on the clues in the text. As in his previous book 'The Paper Men' (published three years before), Golding uses his narrator to disparage the literary qualities of their stories. Here Golding's pompous Edmund admits that his tale lacks the finesse or final flourish of 'Rites of Passage'. Did Golding actually feel this way about the book he was mastering?
It seems likely, as the modesty rests on grains of truth. Without Colley's narrative there is more ebb and flow, more slack than taut. Happenings seem more disparate, less precipitate. Others' critiques have said that 'Close Quarters' suffers from middle book syndrome, as an in-between novel that only stands up when bookended by the other works. It certainly benefits from knowing the first book, and is most poignant when pointing backwards to incidents in the previous story. However, I think it would be possible to read one-off, and remain invested. The love interest is new, the pricked pomposity of blundering Edmund both excruciating and often funny, and the uncertainties in the very route they all take renders genuine suspense. I also love how Golding can use one man's narrative to show people talking at cross-purposes, or simply not getting one another. You can feel the sneers of Captain Anderson as he keeps disappearing down his bolt-hole, and both share Anderson grating annoyance about Edmund, and also have sympathy for Edmund. These psychological sleights of hand make me happy.
The standard set by 'Rites of Passage' soared above crows' nest height, and the doldrums in this follow-up are essentially the point. The quieter moments are the subtle shading needed to set off the whole, and unlike the weaker 'Paper Men', Golding anchors the emotions and visuals into a compelling and weighty whole.
We switch from confidence to an awareness of omnipresent futility, as Edmund Talbot and other try to fend off defeatism. It manages to feel both other-worldly and real. Golding was a sailor and naval aficionado, so this tale of life at sea in 1815 is full of fo'castles, types of rigging, and ingenious means to clear weighty seaweed from the bows.
In other hands the technicalities could have become laboured, but Edmund is only cursorily interested, as Golding probably quite rightly imagined most of his audience would be. Most attention is paid to the accursed hope, injured pride and fragile egos of the ship's crew and passengers. The boat is a literal vehicle for the sort of microcosmic hothouse that made 'Lord of the Flies' such a success. It's still not cheery (to make an understatement), but the ebbs in many ways are as gripping as flashpoint flows into lightning action.
So far, the 'Ends of the Earth' trilogy is right up there for me with 'Lord of the Flies' as Golding's best work. 'Darkness Visible', followed by his other mid-1950s novels would be my pick for his next best work. We don't lose the stormy despair that runs through these other works, but so far the 'Ends of the Earth' books are the ones I would return to soonest for glints of delight they refract from life's darkest depths.