John le Carré appears to have
left the Circus with unfinished business: one more novel. But he left that truly
unfinished, meeting the ultimate deadline all writers face, and his son put a
final coat of paint to the piece on his dad’s behalf.
I blogged about this in the Central
Registry. Short version…
*
Are you prepared to track down
the comic book adaptation of the movie of the opera of the pizza of the book?
Will you discover, many years later, that a
revised version of the sacred text was uncovered at an archaeological dig deep
in the forests of Pern? Are you keen on the Michelin
Restaurant Guide to the Inns and Taverns of Mordor…
What is the output? It is whatever you find
and in that inexact order. I’ve read ’em all, and then I’ve gone on to read
some more.
*
In the case of le Carré, my
order of reading was all over the place. I started with his Karla Trilogy, conveniently collected in
an inconvenient tome – difficult to read while trying to perch coffee in
mid-air.
It’s a hard-won skill.
So the core Smiley story, I read in order.
Later I found books leading up to that trilogy and away from it. But the one-volume
trilogy really is its own creature. The earlier stuff is the earlier stuff.
Imagine skipping The Hobbit and reading Tolkien’s main body of work. You get by. Along
those lines. Later, it’s up to you to decide if you want to visit the start…so
you can genuinely go there and back again.
I worked my way through le Carré, vaulting
over his out-of-place novel: The Naïve
and Sentimental Lover. Still can’t bring myself to attempt that nonsense
again. The author’s books are not all Smiley
books, and you can just about skate around the chronological reading order with
a degree of dexterity and little chance of slipping.
Now, on belatedly learning of its existence,
I have another tome to add to the le Carré archive. It is his last novel, and I
will read it last. (The book I skipped STAYS skipped.) Read the last one last? You’d
think this is the way of things, but often it feels like a luxury. What is the last book, after all?
If an author travels to an earlier point in a
series, writes a prequel, then dies…that’s the last book written, but the first
in the series. Tricky. Then there’s the series that runs after death, written
by other hands steering a shaky tiller as the franchise sails choppy seas.
Awkward.
Yes, there’s the variation on that course of
action: other hands step in mid-way through a sentence after the author’s
death. Tying off loose ends at best. Necrophilia at worst. And there’s the
reader variation…
The reader dies before the book series tolls
its last bell. Looking in your direction, George R.R. Martin. How many readers
fell by the wayside, toppled by the Reaper’s scythe, as they tried to play the
Game of Tomes?
This also
reminds me of authors who are bombarded by needy reviewers using the old terminal illness ploy. Could you send me your latest epic in
manuscript form? Leukaemia is a bitch. Two entirely unconnected statements
leaning against one another. When the author sees through the ploy, it’s a case
of over that author’s dead body.
You think this doesn’t happen? That’s akin
to believing famous literary competitions don’t flout their own submission
rules. Aw, bless your dear heart. The
competition is now open and receiving published books…so why are publishers
throwing raw manuscripts at the judges?
Tsk.
Unfinished business. Harsh to say this, but,
on occasion, it’s better if a writer dies before starting the next book in the
series. That’s a solemn tombstone of a thought. I won’t trouble you with
examples. You’ll find plenty out there.
What of unfinished books, from the other
direction? I’ve been down this wayward path before, but not often. If I start reading
a book, I finish reading that book. With few exceptions. Rarely, I’ve started a
book I knew I just couldn’t finish. Still a mere handful of stories, after all
those hours searching the stacks.
Yes, sometimes it is a dusty piece of toil
to turn a page. But turn a page I must. So much for books that I score off a
list. The authors are scored off, too, lest I repeat the dusty toil anew. Let
us draw a veil upon those boring reading experiences. “Experiences.”
Time passes and, eventually, the final
volume in a series arrives. If it is the final volume. We can say that with
certainty in the case of The League of
Extraordinary Gentlemen. After a gap of unknown proportions, I finally
settled on the last tome in the tale – The
Tempest. What surprises are left, there?
It has 3D glasses! Fucketty-fuck! Are you
shitting me?! And not the modern kind, either. The red and green variety of
optical delusion is on full display here. Didn’t see that coming. Alan Moore,
credited as himself and not as THE
CREATOR, most likely for reasons of tax, would be very familiar with
gimmick items released alongside comic books.
He wrote for 2000AD, which started life with a Space Spinner attached to the
front cover. I imagine a young Alan in short trousers and long grey beard,
regaling all in the streets with the news of an astronautical accompaniment to
a weekly periodical of scientific-fictionalised purpose and intent.
*
It is an ancient author-er,
And he stoppeth one of three.
“By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?”
*
Anna Glyph is the type of superhero
character you’ll find in an Alan Moore story, along with Polly Amory, Sid E.
Reáltime, and Judge Dread. Wait. I think that last one’s been done. I expect a
sense of finality in the final volume of a story…not 3D glasses. Surprising.
And that leads to the point about the final
story being a fitting end to whatever series you are reading. We have the
interwebs now, and the information super-country-lane. In Tolkien’s day, there
was none of that.
Just two fans, having that conversation. What happens if he dies before he finishes
the saga? There was no internet. It was possible that fans didn’t know the entire story was readied
in vast chunks at the printer, putting Tolkien ahead of George R.R. Martin in
the Game of Tomes.
Even if Tolkien published part one without
finishing part three, popping his clogs, kicking the bucket, and letting a
wizardy pipe fall from his hands, his son Christopher would have stepped in to wrest
the type and type the rest upon his death. Ah, but this takes us on a short
trip to another point. Is a member of the family the best choice for continuation
of the legacy?
You’ll have to try that stew on your own. If
you don’t like the recipe, add salt. Online critics do, with ease.
Works published after an author’s demise
take on an atmosphere they wouldn’t otherwise – if you’ve heard the news, that
is. The existence of the very last le Carré tome never crossed my mind. I
noticed it by chance.
So, yes, I ask myself if this final book,
written in a body’s declining days, will show the faltering storytelling of a
declining mind…or maybe le Carré was pin-sharp to the end, and merely ran out of
hours. How much mood is altered, tone shifted, atmosphere distorted, knowing
another’s hand stepped in to tie the last shoelace and close the door on the
way to the printer?
Adam Hall dictated Quiller’s last literary
moments from his deathbed. Yes, to his son. Does it get more dramatic than
that? Hard to say. Adam Hall knew it would be the last book. Time was against
him – a feature he employed to keep his fictional spy on the edge.
For my money, Hall gave us the perfect
sentiment on which to end a series. Raymond Chandler did that, too. Except,
once he was finished with The Long
Good-bye, he resurrected a screenplay from the 1940s and furnished one
last-gasp of an effort: Playback. The
detective Marlowe resurfaced out of a cinematic past just before his creator
died.
Death isn’t the only thing that leads to
unfinished business. You lose track of authors. They disappear for a long
while, and you become busy with other things. Then a coincidence carries you
back in that particular direction as you march between the digital shopping stacks.
Oh. There’s that series. How did that go?
(Wanders casually down the leaf-strewn information super-country-lane.) Damn.
Looks as though I have unfinished business with that series, those characters,
and the words of yon author.
That’s the point. There’s always something
new to look at. Even if the new thing bypassed you when it was new…and now sits
in a heap of autumn leaves. Night draws in like a cloak with the wind at your
back. Catching up on unfinished unfinished business, reading, gives you
something to do when the hint of a chill rises and the weather turns with the
promise of changing seasons in the sparkling air.
