Barking in the rain
Patrick Skene Catling
DOG DAYS by Aidan Higgins Secker, £15.99, pp. 286 After recovery from initial bewilder- ment, one may argue in defence of Dog Days, the second volume of Aidan Higgins's projected tripartite autobiogra- phy, that its structure and style resemble memory itself, an amorphous gestalt, ran- dom, chaotic and beyond any sort of moral system. It is true that the straightforward, progressive, linear chronology of orthodox autobiography imposes an order that is artificial.
The disorderly Higgins method, or non- method, may truly represent his inward view of himself in the past and present, but it is not a view easy for even the most sympathetic reader to comprehend, let alone admire. However, then arises the question whether autobiography's proper function is to please the reader or thera- peutically to relieve the writer of a lot of psychic garbage. Having squeezed out this sequel to Donkey's Years, Higgins may feel less uncomfortable about the traumas of his middle age.
He is a misanthrope of great caustic eloquence. He writes concretely, pic- turesquely and with peevish wit, very well indeed, especially about familial disharmo- ny (he calls his elder brother, nicknamed Dodo, 'the turdy old bollicks'), sexual frus- tration (`my longing for the bitch was so intense, and never to be gratified, that my teeth ached') and dogs barking in the rain (passim). There are countless bad-tem- pered dogs in this book, and the weather is almost always bad. He is able to rely only on Spain for sunshine. He portrays Ireland, his native land, at its gloomiest, made only just bearable by Guinness, Jameson whiskey and the rare literary grant. Like the great Dean Swift, Higgins is a sensitive- ly observant connoisseur of excrement. `The smaller the island,' he observes, 'the `I'll take them.' bigger the neurosis.'
A stranger in a pub asked Higgins
the one question to which there is no satis- factory answer: 'What do you do?' He replied: `I write books actually.' `What classa books?' `Books that don't sell.'
There has been prestige. His first novel, Langrishe, Go Down, won the James Tait Black Memorial Prize and the Irish Acade- my of Letters Award. His second novel, Balcony of Europe, was short-listed for the Booker. But that was 26 years ago. There was no formal accolade for the third novel, Lions of the Grunewald, in 1993. Liking it made me feel rather lonely. Then there was a collection of short stories. And now the memoirs, written in a novelistic style, with many short, descriptive fragments, with dialogue, as if he wished this trilogy could be novels.
He was once 'hired to teach Creative Writing' at the University of Texas at Austin (`don't make me laugh'), 'an occu- pation or pastime as recondite as falconry'. Critics have sometimes praised him, but commercial success has proved elusive. Does he think he's unusual? In his 71st year he seems sour about the whole business. His tone is resentful, though he never accuses anyone of forcing him to write.
In Dog Days he commends Hemingway, but there are no kind words for other writ- ers. He castigates 'that vain poet Robert Graves', 'that acid man Geoffrey Grigson, poet', 'vain twittery old aunty' Lawrence Durrell, and Arther Miller, 'uniquely self- pervaded'. Higgins jeers at Miller's
having Death of a Salesman done into Chinese. 'I won't take the rap' will be ren- dered into Chinese as 'I will not take the cooking-pot on my back.'
And he dismisses Graham Greene's The Quiet American as 'a novel full of lies'.
It is curious that Higgins, though repelled by what he perceives to be the vanity of others, often indulges in the vain practice of referring to himself in the third person, as 'Rory of the Hills'.
Fine buildings, bridges and piers retain their dignity even as ruins and can improve with age whereas advancing years do us humans no favours.
Dog Days is loosely centred in an uncom- fortably shared bungalow in County Wick- low, with flashbacks radiating drearily in many directions, from Connemara to Berlin. Since then, advancing years have done him a couple of notable favours. He has moved to a pleasant house in Kinsale, whose restaurateurs claim the title 'The Gourmet Capital of Ireland', and he is living there with Alannah, his talented 'last love'.
Is Aidan Higgins capable of describing a happy ending? I look forward to volume three, The Whole Hog, with anxious antici- pation.
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