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Guerrillas is set in an historical moment; it is about the disaster of colonialism, or rather colonialism as disaster, unmitigated. We are in a post-colonial unnamed mixed-race Caribbean Island, probably Trinidad, Naipaul’s birthplace, sunk in such desuetude and exhaustion, it is difficult to see how it can have any functioning future. The Americans are raping the land, the locals are petty and corrupt, any political resistance is in disarray: there is no hope. The landscape reflects the life: polluted, drought-stricken, garbage-strewn etc. Into this tropical anti-paradise waltzes Roche, a failed South African revolutionary, and his girlfriend/mistress, Jane, an aimless upper-middle-class twit seeking excitement. The third in the ménage is Jimmy, another failed revolutionary but still having a go at it; he is, after all, a local. These three play off against one another in rising tension, physical and psychological.

The major figures are all men, save Jane, who is almost identical in character to the similarly placed female in the last novel of Naipaul’s I read: A Bend in the River. She is white, hypocritical, weak, sexually voracious, privileged, and seems to stand as a general symbol for the old colonial order. As such, she is an object of hate and destructive violence for those who feel disenfranchised by the colonial ‘experiment’.  What happens to Jane, which is the climax of the novel, for this reader, is a case of objective symbolism merging into private misogyny, which extends throughout to a general misanthropy. There is not one likeable person in this book. Furthermore, it is plain that humans simply aren’t up to the task of managing themselves, either personally or publicly. The inevitable result is a sort of enervated chaos, with occasional outbursts of horrific violence. Nothing else seems possible, well certainly not in any post-colonial world, but Naipaul suggests that things aren’t much better in London either; the violence and chaos is masked and muted, that’s all.

It is all brilliantly done, particularly the evocation of place. Naipaul employs a dense descriptive prose, at times as suffocating as his story; the characters are complex and subtle, even if directionless. But the relentless pessimism and anger and hate, made me feel as if I was being harangued by a barroom crank, no room to disagree, and his smell lingers. The narrative methodically closes down possibilities, eventually excluding the reader.

All up, it is a very nasty tale told very well.

 

This is the sixth novel I’ve read of T.C. Boyle and, as per usual, he delivers a fast-paced lucidly written narrative. The opening chapter is sensational, too difficult an act to follow as it turns out. I don’t want to say anything about the plot and I recommend readers avoid the book’s blurb, if they can, which is full of spoilers. That blurb states that the novel ‘explores the roots of violence and anti-authoritarianism inherent in the American character’, and I believe this was Boyle’s overall intention, but like his main character, Adam, he drifts off the grid.

There are three main figures interacting: Sten, an old ex-Viet vet and former headmaster of the local Californian high school once attended by his twenty something son, Adam, a seriously psychologically damaged loner, and Adam’s older lover, Sara, an anti-establishment crank. Violent and mouthy men and women enamoured of the American outlaw legend, familiar Boyle territory, and I feel he’s worked this ground more productively. Not that with a writer of this calibre there aren’t great positives. The actual writing is visceral, sensual, always to the purpose, and threaded with off-beat humour even through its darkest passages. The close third person Boyle habitually employs―no fancy literary tricks here―is ideal for getting right under the skin of his characters.  Boyle has wonderful empathy with even the wackiest individuals and he takes you right with him.

Even so, Adam is so extreme he can’t be really developed as a symbol for anything. America hasn’t made Adam, he has just latched onto aspects of America that feed his madness. Ditto Sara in a lesser way; she’s just another ratbag you don’t want to sit next to on the train. Sten is more complex and interesting, but Boyle obviously feels that he can build a more gripping story around Adam, and of course he can, but potential depth and resonance are invariably sacrificed. It’s a tabloid thriller, not really much more. The (literary) problem with cranks and maniacs is that, no matter how brilliantly realised, they can’t tell us much about anything except themselves.