Crime Today News
I have a soft spot for the debut works of major writers. It’s so endearing to witness the writer struggle with all the things that every new writer does – the timelessness of the story, the individuality of language, and above all, to offer the reader a great reading experience.
John Williams published his first novel, Nothing But the Night, when he was only 26. He went on to write three more novels – Butcher’s Crossing (1960), Stoner (1965), and Augustus (1972). Stoner is his most well-known novel, while Nothing But the Night might actually be his weakest. Critics have often called Stoner a perfect novel, while Nothing But the Night is anything but. In fact, many reviews have criticised Williams for his baroque writing style and the aimlessness of the plot, and to boot, an annoyingly narcissistic protagonist. But to me, these are what make Nothing But the Night so eminently readable. The arc of the writer – from writing a mediocre novel to the perfect one – is here for the reader to witness. And what could be better than that?
Father, father, father
Nothing But the Night follows 24-year-old Arthur Maxley around an unnamed city in the course of a single night. He has yet to go to university but is lavishly supported by his family – he spends most of his time dozing and drinking. The novel opens with an elaborate description of a dream where he is “weightless and unalive.” Arthur is a lone man on an island – he is disturbed about something and completely lonely. Despite his young age, his parents are absent from his world and he seems to have no real friends or a lover. He is haunted by something he had witnessed at home, an altercation of sorts between his mother and father. Like his hazy dreams, the reader is kept in the dark about the exact nature of the dispute. Instead, Williams stresses Arthur’s hatred for his father. “Father, Father, Father, he said to himself. What an ugly word.”
But Arthur’s hatred is mixed with curiosity. When his father turns up in the city after a long spell of foreign travels in South America, Africa, and India, he calls on his son to see him for dinner. Arthur’s resentment soon gives way and he agrees. But he’s a bundle of nerves. He has no qualms about enjoying his father’s wealth but something about being summoned by him as though everything is normal irks him. The evening goes by trying to fend off a “friend” who hopes to borrow $500 from Arthur to start a publishing company. Arthur’s wealth is no secret and his friend urges him to ask his father for the money.
When the fateful hour finally arrives, he realises the “enormity of the moment” and it “engulfs him like a wave.” The meeting is not pleasant and to make matters worse, a suspicious-looking woman claims to be a close companion of his father’s. The absurdity of the hour reaches its peak. Arthur “sees” his mother’s outstretched arm reaching out for him from behind the haze of people at the hotel.
Father / Mother?
Unable to bear it any longer, Arthur flees the scene and is out on the road again. About this, William writes, “Some unnameable power pushed him from one place to another, down paths he had no wish to travel…” It is on this path that Claire Higsic catches an “unconscious corner of his eyes.” She is waiting for someone who is showing no signs of arriving and he has the entire night ahead of him. The two start drinking – champagne at first, and then brandy – and inevitably, the mood sobers up as the man starts regaling his woes. When Claire tries to compliment his hands, he shuts her up by saying that he is nothing more than a “parasite.”
Despite the obvious seduction of the moment, Arthur finds it impossible to relax. Claire offers to go back to her place, but the spatial familiarity, her beauty which is comparable to his mother, and her forthcoming attitude throw him off – something is not right about how the night is unfolding. Plus, he is hallucinating again. He can clearly see the scene from his childhood, only this time, it is his mother who is holding the gun. She is all set to use it.
In a moment of anger and epiphany, Arthur wonders if he’s got it all wrong. Was his resentment of his father all for nothing? If so, where is his mother and why is his father never home? Completely emasculated by his own childhood and this woman who’s making him do as she pleases, Arthur lashes out at her in the ultimate show of masculinity.
There is a lot of aimlessness in Williams’s novel. For instance, Arthur never really realises the cause of his anguish, he wanders the streets without a destination in mind, he drinks without really savouring the taste. When he’s presented with a chance of companionship – however temporary – he squanders it by falsely equating Claire’s boldness to his mother’s. In contemporary language, he’s both a mama’s boy and a daddy’s brat. He exists in a suspended state of abandonment and betrayal, which, by the end of the novel, the reader suspects is of his own making.
Nothing But the Night is not a perfect novel, and it does not have to be. But even at the early age of 26, Williams was preoccupied with the crisis of masculinity in the 20th century – a theme that he would revisit in his later novels. His debut novel perfectly portrays the oppressive mess of repression and self-absorption, and the dangers of indulging in these feelings for too long.
Nothing but the Night, John Williams, Vintage.
This article first appeared on Scroll.in
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