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Hardcover
First published July 4, 1988
Contrary to what I had long been pleased to imagine he was not blind. Merely indolent. — Samuel Beckett, ‘Enough’This book has been compared to Kafka’a ‘The Hunger Artist’ (The Sunday Times) and Camus’ The Outsider (The Times) and I can see where those reviewers are coming from but it was Kirkus Review that encapsulated my own thoughts when it said: “[I]t would take the skills of a Beckett to dramatise successfully a state as inert as Peter's” because as I began reading this the tone and timbre (of the voice in my head) immediately called to mind many of Beckett’s less… I want to write “ert” as an antonym of “inert” but let’s go with “animated”… and vocal characters particularly the likes of the bedridden Malone and especially the disembodied and jarbound narrator of The Unnamable, neither of whom utter a word aloud despite, at the same time, never shutting up and then, of course, there are many instances of closed-space texts and “skullscapes” in his short prose works and, too, let us not forget the wheelchairs in which Mr Kelly (Murphy), Nagg (Endgame) and B (from Rough for Theatre I) are confined.
They put me in a wheelchair, naturally, for how else, if you were so inclined, would you shift a creature like me? They had long ago, it seemed, given up the pretence of trying to rehabilitate me, struggling daily to try and get me to bear my own weight, feed myself, wipe my own arse. No one seemed more than superficially bothered, and I was happy to have it that way. It seemed as if they had contented themselves with the fact that I still lived, somehow, in spite of my thanatophile appearance and demeanour. So I was carted around in a wheelchair, naturally. Easier. For all concerned.—but, and this I fear is for the readers’ benefit, he takes too much interest in the goings-on around him rather than dwelling on, or even living in, the past; here I’m thinking specifically of a play like A Piece of Monologue where the actor spends the whole play staring at a wall. Peter also is more lucid, articulate and, frankly, intelligent than I would’ve expected. He feigns disinterest but, like the partially-interred Winnie in Happy Days, he has a lot to say about what little of the world he gets to see. It would’ve been better, I think, if, rather than following Peter around for several weeks we only got to spend a few hours with him in real time, preferably his final hours, as he reviews the important events of his life.
I lose track of the seasons. There seems no point in trying to pin them down. Once I must have thought it worthwhile from the point of view of my own comfort perhaps, but now it seems a quite futile exercise. Every day is just the same as the last, my limbs, all parts of me, becoming more wasted. And my sight, periodically, seems to be failing. The moving shapes in front of me become formless, colourless and hazy, hissing, if that’s the way I can describe a shape. Sometimes, if there’s a sudden noise—a window being broken by one of the patients, or an unusually high-pitched scream—then my sight becomes clear momentarily, though it’s never for long. I confess that I no longer care much about my sight. I no longer care about anything I suppose. The day will come, my last day, and I sense it’s not far away, not far away at all . . .The one character in the book I struggled with was the Major. He’s not badly-written but he is clichéd—think Major Gowan in Fawlty Towers or Major Benjy in the Mapp and Lucia novels—and the thing about madmen is there’re so many options out there; why pick such an easy target? (Full disclosure by the way: I have a similarly stereotypical military man in my own first novel who I’d love to replace.)
