Absconding from perfection
Anita Brookner
LIGHT YEARS by James Salter
g 0
Hamill, £10.99, pp. 308, ISBN 1860466540 li 3g Another novel, another marriage, another marital breakdown — but this is slightly different, Lurking behind what has become a convention, almost a requirement, is something rather more universal, and also more dignified: an immense nostalgia for the settled state, not merely for happiness but for trust, for the knowledge that one will not be betrayed. That this once existed, and was wilfully brought to an end, imparts an aura of tragedy to an exasperatingly familiar scenario. The marriage in question is treated as something so ideal that the only possible progress is downward, towards, if not ruin, then certainly expulsion. Thus the world's oldest story is re-enacted, by characters apparently as obtuse as Adam and Eve, but without the
benefit of ignorance. The fall, if that is what it is, is seen as ineluctable, and this is peculiarly interesting. The extreme happiness and satisfaction of this particular husband and wife leads them into assumptions of complacency, even grandiosity: if this is allowed — this perfect marriage — then surely infidelity is almost an obligation, an entitlement. For every obscure dissatisfaction there must be a remedy. Through thickets of abrupt and idiosyncratic writing James Salter anatomises a common moral dilemma, which may no longer be a dilemma: guilt-free suffering, with the benefit of added compensations.
The marriage in question is between Nedra and Viri (all the names are unconvincing, so that it is difficult to tell the men from the women). Viri is an architect; Nedra, his wife, keeps house in their American suburb and brings up their two daughters. Everything is beautiful: the house, the landscape, the daughters, the friends. When Nedra drives into New York for some gourmet shopping the roads are free of congestion. There are many dinner parties, weekend parties, beach parties, evenings at the theatre, summers at Amagansett. But to one of her women friends Nedra explains that she is restless; she wants to be rich and live in Europe. The innocence of such statements is taken for granted by one or other of these friends, who seem to come from nowhere and have equally puzzling names. All are treated as satellites to the central couple, as if the peculiar lustre of this marriage casts all the other characters into shadow. There is no illness, no loss of energy or confidence, no failure.
Viri is the first to abscond from perfection. He succumbs to Kaya (another maddening name) who is not only wordless but instantly unfaithful. Nedra, in the meantime, when not busy with her various domestic duties, has, as of right, a lover drawn from the ranks of their various friends. Apparently no one is harmed by this behaviour, although Viri feels some anguish at Kaya's desertion. It is here that one is in a position to appreciate the writing. The love that must subsist somewhere is directed outwards, to the accoutrements of a happy life, to the weather, the seasons, the delicious food, the daughters' long hair, even the dog. Even New York is seen as benign and risk-free, yet this is not holiday reading. The theme is grief. What makes the novel sympathetic is that the author feels this, allowing his characters to remain unaware.
A moralist, then, in this exculpatory age? Not quite. What emanates from these pages and is apparently endorsed by the author, is the insouciance, the curious blamelessness of those who take good fortune for granted. When Nedra takes another lover and Viri raises no firm objections she asks for a divorce, explaining to her husband that a woman who is happy is infinitely better than one who is embittered and loyal. Her new life will be problemfree, whereas Viri confronts a 'fatal space'. Yet no less important than the danger is the knowledge that the best part of life is over. The author's realisation of this fact is again superior to that of his characters, and is informed by a curious mournfulness, which has been there from the beginning, and which adds a dimension of tragedy to a life acknowledged as happy.
This strange insistent novel absorbs one like a life that one is able to observe but which remains inexplicable. It is not entirely likeable, but it is certainly enviable. Viri marries a second time, a marriage entered into with dread but with the calm of defeat. He is able to do this because he recognises the inevitability of change, of decay. The sense of a life being overtaken is particularly strong here, as if volition had already disappeared. Nedra perhaps fares better. It seems that her irregular and enthusiastic behaviour has given her a certain advantage. She leaves, or is left, with no regrets.
James Salter's novels, of which this is the third, have won the praise of Susan Sontag, James Wallcott, and Elizabeth Benedict. He is a corrective to the frictionless and inconsequential attitudes which attract easy attention and enthusiasm. Light Years, with its apparently neutral title, while not quite the 20th-century classic it is claimed to be, exerts an unusual pressure on the reader. One closes it with a feeling of discomfort, as if encouraged to enter the one particular examination that no one is remotely qualified to pass.
DATA PROTECTION ACT. When responding to offers and promotions The Spectator (1828) Limited will use your information for administration. customer wrvict., and targeted marketing_ In order to fulfil our commitments to you we will disclose your information to our service providers and agents. We may contact you by mail. fay telephone or email to lei you know about other Spectator products. sentrys or promotions. We would also like to pa, your details to other carefully selected organisations in order that they can offer you information. goods and services that may be of interest. If you would prefer that your details are not passed to such organisations. please write to The Data Manager. 36 Doughty Street. London WC IN 2LL. or email datamanagierfoi,pectatorco.uk
Previous page
