Auberon Waugh on Nicholas Mosley's importance
Natalie Nata/ia Nicholas Mosley (Hodder and Stoughton £2.25) Some weeks ago, my publisher asked me to help him out over the blurb for a new novel which I finished last February but which will not appear — such is the leisurely way of British publishing — until next February. Anything to save the poor fellow a little work, I obligingly opened my Roget's Thesaurus at what seemed the appropriate page and jotted down a few useful words and phrases: masterpiece, coup de maitre, tour de force etc 626; be good etc, excel, transcend, beneficial, valuable, edifying, salutary etc (healthful) 656; model, standard, pattern, mirror, admirable Crichton; trump; very prince of . . . I can't remember the exact formula which emerged. This enchanting tale, told by the very prince of storytellers, is guaranteed to delight young and old alike on each of its several levels — or something like that, I think. One might have slipped in a few comparisons with Trollope, Tolstoy or Edna O'Brien, but scarcely with the Admirable Crichton.
Blurbs very seldom give any idea of the book, unless one has learned to crack the code. Hodder and Stoughton describe Nicholas Mosley's new novel thus : " NATALIE NATALIA is an extraordinary and original novel by an important British writer." There is no suggestion that a reader will find it enjoyable, and this is perfectly fair, because it is not in the least bit enjoyable. Similarly, there is no suggestion that it is well-written or interesting, beneficial, valuable, edifying or salutary, and all these omissions are justified. But what, I wonder, persuaded them to choose the adjective ' important ' out of all the rich and wonderful words in the English language, to describe Mosley?
If the word is used in its archaic sense, of having import or meaning, then there is scarcely a writer alive to whom it is less applicable. Let us look at the first sentence, which, delights the author so much that he repeats it word for word on page 147: "In Parliament Square there is the building like a battleship and the Abbey like a toad and the starred sky unseen as if security or long grass were hiding it." Never mind that in English we say 'there are' rather than there is' when two or more things are going to be listed. What on earth is the meaning of the suggestion that the starred sky (apparently in Parliament Square, although unseen) might be (but isn't — note that elegant subjunctive) hidden by either security or long grass? This is a false alternative, since security could only hope to hide it metaphorically, being an abstract noun, while long grass might contrive to hide it in actual fact, it there were any long grass in Parliament Square and if it weren't such a bloody silly idea, anyway.
The second sentence is more challenging: "I had left the building in which I had spent so much of the last few years — Parliament — a turkish bath of society in which discomfort is endured for the sake of satisfaction or the damned; an orgy where lust for power is exorcized discreetly." Never mind the pedantic objections that Parliament is not a building although it might be a number of years; or that it has no resemblance whatever to an orgy where lust for power is exorcized discreetly, familiar as one is with such orgies; or that "a turkish bath of society" is clumsy and ambiguous. One can forgive any amount of confused imagery, imprecision and artistic ineptitude provided that some sort of meaning is communicated. But what, in the name of God, does he mean by "for the sake of satisfaction or the damned"?
Plainly, no publisher could single out Mr Mosley for his import or meaning, even when stupefied by food and drink. Threequarters of the book is without any coherent meaning of any sort, and although occasional vivid impressions may be created by the words and images which Mr Mosley throws together with such reckless disregard they cannot, with the best will in the world, be said to have any meaning. Such narrative as there is — an adulterous, self-obsessed, politician, having a nervous breakdown, goes to Africa, sees an imprisoned African politician through his haze of self-absorption, breaks down, comes back and resumes adultery — pales into insignificance beside the half-witted reflections, random epigrams and unconnected snatches of episodic imagery which make up the rest of the book. Some of it is hallucination, of course, some of it fantasy, some of it metaphorical symbolism, some of it just coo-aren't[-different-you-know-artistic-dreamy-sort-of, but Solomon himself couldn't tell which is which, nor does it matter in the slightest, since there is no precision of thought behind Mr Mosley's muddled, half-hearted exhibitionism. He has nothing that he wishes to say, and his purpose in writing is merely to demonstrate that he would be unable to express it with any clarity if he could think of anything to say. But he rather hopes that we will think him clever, different-you-know-artistic-dreamy-sort-of.
In what other way can any writer — let alone a novelist — be described as important? If Mr Mosley will open his Roget at the reference to 'novel,' he will find it entered thus: "a work of fiction, novel, romance, penny dreadful, shilling shocker, Minerva press; fairy-nurserytale; fable, parable, apologue." Importance does not seem a usual connotation of the novel. Perhaps they mean Mr Mosley will influence other novelists to write like him. I only hope and pray that he doesn't.
Although there can be nothing less important than novels, those who, like myself, have an affection for them, can only be saddened by the shriek of delight from chicken-brained, trendy reviewers which greets every pathetic lurch into the literary cul-de-sac which has already been exhaustively explored by Joyce, Woolf, Durrell and every witless, inarticulate trendy ever since. Mosley's Impossible Object was hailed by Vernon Scannell of the New Statesman as "really trying to make language behave in a way that it has not behaved before." It afforded the Sunday Telegraph " a most powerful and extraordinary experience."
Well, Mr Mosley (whose real name is Lord Ravensdale, and who is described its being very rich and very nice by those who know him) hasn't bothered to write a novel, preferring to jot down his random thoughts, usually fatuous ones. I don't see why I should take the trouble to construct a review. I append a few of the notes I made while reading: P.31 "I thought — Perhaps a computer works best when it has fused and people are mending it" — if he really has such idiotic thoughts, shouldn't he keep quiet about them? P.43 "My daughter ran as if to a thunderstorm" — did she frequently run to thunderstorms? Must be soft in the crumpet, too. P.51 — more rubbish. P.52 — "I remembered — Suffering is that which gives warning against pain" — sounds clever until you think about it.
P.153 "Natalie was a knife sterilised in urine" — Coo! P.54 — "Am I having a nervous breakdown?" Yes, you bloody well are. P.66 switch to Natalie as narrator. P.65 — "Boys and girls seemed strung up with hair like St Sebastian. Indolently, they pulled out arrows. Their bodies, with pride, deflated." Sounds clever, smart, almost poetic. What does it mean? P.112 — conversation with Sunday newspaper editor — "I'll write your story. But it'll be about what life is, instead of what it's supposed to be." Silly creep. 13,120-125 — long dialogue. Not the faintest idea of who's talking to whom. What's happening? Has Mosley no conception of how boring this is? P.146 — he always spreads his hands like oil to stop the top of his head coming off. Curiously repetitive imagery. May succeed in convincing a few simpletons that it's clever. P.147 — repeat of first paragraph. P.159-176 — dream sequence. I can't be expected to read this gibberish. Better own up to skipping it, though. P.190 — gets to Ndoula — nothing to say to him. Tee-hee. P.223 — "She, too, thought the clock should be struck at twenty-five past six. Like that crack in the temple. But the stone was rolled aside." Meaning? P.237-248 — now it's Adam, the son, who is first person narrator. Every single silly trick. P.274 — Elizabeth describes him as a "fool, riddled with selfpity." Quite right. P.283 — the symptoms of the crack-up in western society: "One, a complete denial of the female principle. Two, the use of energy to produce as a process, waster; rather than, in a circuit, feed-back." Poor fellow.
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