Hearing Secret Harmonies: An End to the Dance

Wrapping up a twelve book series that spans a half a century is no mean feat, especially a series whose various plots are sprawling and inclusive of hundreds of named characters, and yet Anthony Powell provides a satisfying and thoughtful ending to A Dance to the Music of Time with his final volume, Hearing Secret Harmonies.  The last three books of the series have been the most powerful and beautifully written, which only makes sense given that Powell’s experience as a writer, his familiarity with his world, and his understanding of what he can do with that world had only deepened over the twenty-four years he had been writing the books.  In addition, I think that the character of the world shifts slightly after the war.  While Powell has never indulged in nostalgia, and while I have argued that the effect of covering so large a stretch of time is to show the way things don’t change rather than the way they do—in spite of those things, there is something different about these last three books, a new interest and a new focus.  Characters of mesmerizing will who pit that will against others have a unique place in these concluding novels.

While Pamela Flitton appeared during the war years, she takes on a much greater role in Books Do Furnish a Room and Temporary Kings.  As Widmerpool’s wife and as a lover to both Trapnel and Gwinnett, her character is defined by her resistance to others and the ferocity of her actions.  She and Trapnel are in direct conflict with Widmerpool, though Widmerpool rides out the storm as best he can, having faith that Pamela will return to him, even as it is unclear what either gets out of their relationship.  With Trapnel’s passing, Gwinnett becomes the new rival for Pamela’s affection.  The nature of his magnetism is more mysterious than Trapnel’s.  Nick describes Trapnel as a man playing too many parts to decide the proper way to act, as a man who is always trying to reconstruct himself.  Gwinnett, on the other hand, is fully formed, knowing precisely what he wants and seeking it with a fierce determination.  Pamela is unexpectedly taken with him and gives herself to him fully.  In Hearing Secret Harmonies, Gwinnett’s quiet powers arise again as he wins over Fiona while we are not looking.  And while his hold over her is not as frightening as Murtlock’s hold over her, there is a parallel established between Gwinnett and Murtlock.  And of course what all these powerful personalities have in common is their direct relationship, and competition, with Widmerpool.

Widmerpool has been an adversary to many over the course of the novels.  His maneuverings have displaced Quiggins as St. Clark’s secretary, supplanted Duport as Donners right-hand man, effected Bithel’s removal from his position, and had an adverse effect on many others.  He has gone toe to toe with Sunny Farebrother in the army and in the political world afterwards.  And through all these conflicts, Widmerpool has had his way and engineered his movement up the chains of power.  In these final three books, that power reaches its highest point and then crumbles away beneath him, sending him on an unrecoverable fall that ends in his sad death.

These issues of power and social position have been present throughout the earlier novels, but they have never taken center stage as they do in these most recent ones, especially in this final book.  The counter-culture presented in Hearing Secret Harmonies is not all that different from the mainstream culture that it is reacting to.  Widmerpool’s desire to “drop out” is really a desire to be king of a different realm, to become a spiritual leader as opposed to a political leader.  But in the spiritual world, Widmerpool is outmatched by Murtlock.  Murtlock is every bit as ruthless as Widmerpool, but he has charm and charisma in addition.  The only two characters who resist Murtlock’s sway spiritually speaking are Canon Freneau and Gwinnett.  The difference in these two men is that they are not competing with Murtlock for domination of anything other than themselves.  Gwinnett’s ambitions are entirely his own, for his own studies, his own work, his own edification.  He is independently willed, but he never forces himself on others, and I think that is part of Powell’s point.

Nick, our narrator, has never been the dramatic center of the story.  He is the point around which all the stars of the system rotate, but only as a matter of perspective.  Nick himself is not involved in all the goings on.  He is not a man of ambition, not a man out to make a name for himself or gather followers.  He is a private man who keeps matters of his own life as much out of his stories as he is able.  The characters who are most attractive to him are those who are equally decent to others, those whose ambitions are private, or those who are humble or good-spirited failures.  There is a treatise on power and peace here, but handled with the same gentle touch that Powell handles all of his other subjects.  Compassion and an ironic eye are the recurring hallmarks of Powell’s style, and they are what makes reading his books so rewarding.

As a side note, I must say that I love the way that Murtlock’s cult is both specific to the late 1960s and early 1970s when this book takes place and part of the larger recurring theme of occultism as represented by Trelawney and Madam Erdleigh.  This treatment is directly tied in to what I was saying in my post about Temporary Kings, in which history is shown to be constant even as the particulars change.  The players and the specifics of their actions may change, but human nature and the nature of our exchanges with each other remains the same.

This is a collection whose whole is greater than the individual parts would suggest.  I was pretty harsh in my review of the first book and some of the earlier books, but Powell achieves something greater than I expected from those early readings.  Hearing Secret Harmonies is not an explosive conclusion, but then nothing about the series is explosive.  Threads are wrapped up but the sense that life continues on as it ever did is preserved as well.  A Dance to the Music of Time is a study not only of dozens of characters but of the character of humanity, and it is well worth the journey to delight in Powell’s prose, insight, and wit.

Time and Narrative in Temporary Kings

*Spoilers ahead*

In my post about the previous volume in the Dance to the Music of Time series, Books Do Furnish a Room, I briefly discussed the nature of Powell’s presentation how times and culture shifts over the half century that the story spans.  I found myself meditating on that subject all the more in the most recent volume, and the penultimate of the series, Temporary Kings. 

As usual, Powell gives his readers no exact dates to pin down the time frame of the story he is telling.  During the set of books that cover the years of the war, we were given a few hard events that allowed us to place the action of the books within a particular year, but beyond that, we are always left to surmise what time has passed and what year we are in.  We are told in Books Do Furnish a Room that Fission, the magazine at the center of the novel, appeared soon after the end of the war and ran for two years, so it is clear to us that the events take place sometime in the last half of the 1940s.  Early in Temporary Kings we learn that the writer X. Trapnel has been dead some ten years and that it had been a few years before his death since Nick, our narrator, has seen him.  That puts us sometime in the 1960s, but where exactly, we don’t know.  What I find so interesting about this vague portrayal of time is that it runs completely contrary to how I anticipated the series progressing.  I knew when I started A Question of Upbringing, that the series would take us a half century down the road, that we would be moving from pre-war England through the war and into the Modern era, quite possibly all the way into the 1970s.  This knowledge set up expectations that this change of culture and the world would be at the heart of what Powell is showing us. 

There are admittedly many ways to tell a story that leisurely covers a 50 year period, but the examples available to me before A Dance to the Music of Time have always played up history over character, like Forest Gump moving through key historical events, showing us a version of history and the American culture and counter-cultures that Gump lived through.  None of that takes place for Powell.  We get no major political figures or geo-political events around which our humble characters dance.  Even during the war, we are kept in England and experience the war from a very different angle than the history books.  If history is told as the great actions of great people, then Powell’s account of this eventful period attempts to capture something very different from the history that is taught in schools.

To be sure, Powell’s characters exist in a specific time and culture—he is not avoiding those environmental factors at all.  There is a great deal of politics and cultural trends, but they infuse every scene rather than take center stage themselves.  We see the forces of culture and counter-culture sliding up against each other, sometimes smoothly and sometimes with great friction, but always through the interaction of characters thrown together by fate and Powell’s loose plotting. 

Two things are achieved by this subtle and powerful approach.  The first achievement is that Powell captures life and time as it is lived.  The political and cultural events of the world are things that have meaning only through the lens of hindsight.  We never know what will be the issues of the history until the facts are gathered and an overarching narrative is stitched together by historians.  What we experience is a whole host of currents and issues that may strike our fancy but that are always second to the pressing matters of life, the bills that need to be paid, the care of loved ones, and the gossip of our friends and relations.   Life is intensely personal and fluid.  History is an inhuman construct in its way.  Powell touches upon this very notion in Temporary Kings, when Nick considers Gwinnett’s efforts to make meaning out of all the stories surrounding Trapnel: 

Enormous simplifications were possibly necessary to carry a deeper truth than lay on the surface of a mass of unsorted detail.  That was, after all, what happened when history was written; many, if not most, of the true facts discarded.

Powell walks a fine line, and walks it beautifully, between giving us the “mass of unsorted details” and the “enormous simplifications” necessary to have his tales carry both life and meaning.

The second achievement is the emphasis of continuity rather than change as time is experienced in life.  Any student of history could tell you about the great social changes between the 1920s and the 1960s, but Nick’s constant narrative voice and refusal to present a pre-packaged view of cultural changes drives home how life as lived is a continuous experience, with very few moments changing everything.  Nick, now in his 50s sounds the same as he did in the first volume, which is exactly how we feel our own lives.  The face in the mirror might warp with gravity and time, but inside we feel like the same people we always were.  And when we meet up with old friends, we quickly see past their physical changes to find the same soul interacting with us in the same way.  When Nick meets up with Moreland, now also in his 50s, Nick gives us a brief description of Moreland’s aging but then gets right on with the conversation and story, and we are right back with Moreland as we were six books ago.  The characters that keep moving in and out of Nick’s ken are the same to us as ever, and as the world changes all around us, it is that continuity that becomes the focus rather than change.  Characters’ political beliefs may alter or hold steady, but they themselves are a mark of sameness.  It is a remarkable achievement to present a kind of anti-history that does nothing to deny the movement of time while simultaneously showing that its power over us is minimal.  Lives may come and go (and there is certainly a high body count over the course of the eleven novels so far), but life is the same as it ever was.

To shift gears to the specifics of Temporary Kings, yet another fantastic volume, I want to spend just a moment looking at a theme unique to it: reliable and unreliable narrators.  While first-person narratives are notorious for their unreliable narrators, Nick has our confidence in every way.  He is impartial with no ego in the tale, since he avoids his own personal life almost entirely.  Up to this point, nearly every account given in the novels has been witnessed by him first hand or told to him, which he retells directly to us.  By contrast, there are two points in Temporary Kings in which the narrative has to be cobbled together by Nick from the telling of multiple other witnesses.  First, we have Pam’s nude appearance in Bagshaw’s home, and second is the drama following the Seraglio performance.  Nick goes to great lengths to tell us journalistically what happened, admitting where the narrative is weakest and where strongest.  This journalistic effort is echoed by Gwinnett’s attempts to gather the tales and experiences of Trapnel through all the accounts of those that knew him.  Gwinnett says in his letter to Nick early in the final chapter of the novel that “he still believed in ‘aiming at objectivity, however much that method may be currently under fire.’”  Apparently there was a time in the early 1960s in which subjective narratives were much preferred to objectivity, perhaps arguing the objectivity was unattainable to begin with.  This is one of those moments that the general cultural issues are treated by Powell as specific and personal.  Why Powell chooses this narrative objectivity as his theme for this novel is unclear to me, but it seems tied up with Pamela Widmerpool.

In many ways, Temporary Kings is about Pamela Widmerpool.  She is at the heart of both questionable narratives, and even at the heart of Trapnel’s narrative with which Gwinnett is struggling.  Pam is a character unlike any other in the novel, and one of the few personalities that Nick can’t seem to crack.  Is her role as a “modern” woman important?  Is her mythical nature important?  It is interesting that she is both thoroughly modern and mythically timeless, like the tale of Candaules and Gyges.  Gwinnett refers to her as “the castrating woman,” and Moreland tells the urban legend of the women who literally castrate a man.  She is someone onto whom others place their feelings and ideas.  Nick observes that she seem to exist solely in the world of sex, but notes that her behavior makes other people see her that way.  He makes no claim about what her world actually consists of.  She is both of the moment and a legend, part human and part cautionary tale.  And under all that, there is something tragic about poor Pamela, more misunderstood and tortured than just about any other character in the series.  It is unclear to me what, if anything, Powell is getting at with her character and her role in the breakdown of objectivity, but it feels packed with meaning to me.

I am excited to read the final book in the series, Hearing Secret Harmonies, and although the book wasn’t published until 1975, I am reading it next to keep up the momentum of the story.  I will return to 1973 and Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow after I conclude this series.

Into the Final Movement of A Dance to the Music of Time

*As always, there are spoilers ahead.*

It is very exciting to be heading into the final movement of Anthony Powell’s twelve volume series, A Dance to the Music of Time.  The tenth book, Books Do Furnish a Room, takes place in the years following the end of World War II.  Nick’s military career is at an end, and he is taking a break from writing fiction to put together a scholarly work about Richard Burton.  In addition to this personal interest, Nick signs on to head up the literary review section of a newly formed magazine, Fission.  Over the course of the novel, the magazine is formed, survives for two years, and then comes to an end.  We meet again many of the recurring characters who have populated the first nine novels of the series and, as always, meet a number of new ones.

Books Do Furnish a Room is one of the finest novels in the series, and my favorite so far.  Powell had always planned on creating a long-form narrative, attempting to avoid the restrictions imposed by putting an entire plot in 250 pages.  In my blog to the first book, A Question of Upbringing, I quoted this excerpt from an interview with Powell from an interview published in Paris review:   

Well, this is rather a long story. You see I haven't any great talent for inventing plots, and indeed it seems to me that even the best writers are inclined to churn out the same stuff in eighty thousand words, although it's dressed up in a different way. And so I thought that there would be all sorts of advantages for a writer like myself to write a really long novel in which plots and characters could be developed, which would cover this question of not doing short-term plots—doing rather larger ones, in fact. But of course I didn't know at the beginning quite how long all this was going to be . . . I knew there would be a great number of novels, and about, I suppose, halfway through I realized that I should have to do at least three about the war. Well, having done six before, it seemed the obvious answer to do three to end it up with, because I think it's quite a good idea to have some sort of discipline imposed on yourself in writing, and therefore I deliberately wrote the last three with the idea of ending it up and doing the neat twelve volumes. But I have to admit that in 1951 I didn't know there'd be exactly twelve.

 When I started the series, I thought of the novels as being essentially plot-free.  There were a lot of beautifully drawn characters all interacting with each other in interesting ways, but there were no moments that seemed to be setting up some future event.  Instead, each chapter read as a sort of short story involving multiple characters in a single universe.  There is much that is funny and some that is moving, but Powell’s writing and power of observation always made the reading interesting and rewarding.  Each novel moves us forward in time, taking us from the narrator’s time at university to, here in book ten, when he is in his early 40’s. 

Two things make Books Do Furnish a Room particularly enjoyable.  First, the novel feels more cohesive in its focus than previous novels in the series.  Perhaps I feel that more than in the other novels because I am particularly interested in Books’ focus on writing and publishing.  Second, I begin to feel the gathering force of the larger story working towards its conclusion.  I don’t expect anything especially dramatic at the climax of the series, but all the characters and relationships have the strength of familiarity and time.  Early in the series, it was hard to tell where everything was going.  The individual stories were all overlapping in their way, building off each other and calling back to past episodes as different elements moved in and out, vanishing for several chapters or volumes, only to come back in again with extra weight.  I had assumed that the four men at the heart of the first novel would be the recurring center of the entire series, but with Stringham and Templer dead (or presumed dead), only Nick and Widmerpool remain.  Widmerpool has appeared in every volume and he seems to be the only character with a central arc, having begun as an object of humor and worked his way up to an MP in the government.  As Le Bas in the final chapter of the tenth book notes, Widmerpool is the last of Nick’s classmates that anyone expected to achieve so much.  As we build to the end of the series, I suspect that Widmerpool has a fall before him.

I have observed in past posts what a wonderful narrator Nick is, full of observation and judicious opinions while at the same time possessing such humor and an eye for irony.  While the novels are not about him at all, he is a wonderful character whom the reader wants to hang out with as much as everyone else in the novel who insists on his company when it’s available.

I also suspected from the beginning that we would watch the world change over the course of the series, and while that is certainly true, the consistency of Nick’s tone makes that change more subtle and gradual than I anticipated.  As we move from post-Victorian to post-war England the tone of the world has changed, but Powell avoids over-dramatizing those changes, giving us continuity as well as changes.  Certainly the younger generation, represented in Books by Pamela Widmerpool and Trapnel are very different from Nick’s friends, but Nick is hardly shaking his head wondering about the youth of today.  The parties that Nick attended in the first movement of the series are a quaint tradition of the past, but there is no bemoaning that absence.  Politics have changed too, as Gypsy Jones, Quiggins, and Erry show.  But like time itself, the change is so gradual that it feels as natural as life as we live it, drawing more attention to similarities than differences.  Whether that was Powell’s intentions, I do not know, but I find it a very interesting effect.

I am excited to see how and to what extent all the threads come together, or to follow the metaphor Powell himself sets out in the opening novel, how the dancers conclude their time on the floor and who will still be among them.  It is on now to the penultimate book in the series, which has the wonderful title Temporary Kings.

Ed Trippin': Narrative Tension in James' Dickey's Deliverance

Spoiler Alert: This review is more analysis than review and it assumes that you are familiar with all the details of the novel.

At first glance, James Dickey’s Deliverance appears to be a part of the traditional tales of man versus nature in which socialized man pits himself against raw nature in order to find some deep truth about human nature.  Like Lord of the Flies, Dickey’s narrative shows us man, stripped of society’s rules and requirements, revealing the violent and bestial impulses lurking just beneath the veneer of civility. The ongoing question of course is whether social codes improve our lives or serve only to smother some essential part of our beings.  Lewis Medlock, the instigator behind the weekend-long canoe trip that is at the center of Dickey’s novel, believes that modern man’s distance from nature and his primitive instincts alienates him from what life is really about, that society strangles us with proper behavior, killing a piece of our soul.  On their drive out to the Cahulawassee river, Lewis explains his philosophy to Ed Gentry, our narrator: 

I think the machines are going to fail, and a few men are going to take to the hills and start over.  . . . At times I get the feeling that I can’t wait.  Life is so fucked-up now, and so complicated, that I wouldn’t mind it if came down, right quick, to the bare survival of who was ready to survive.

When Ed suggests that Lewis head to the mountains and live like a survivalist if that’s what he wants, Lewis counters that doing so would merely be “eccentric”:  “Survival depends—well, it depends on having to survive.  The kind of life I’m talking about depends on its being the last chance.  The very last of it all.”  Lewis would welcome the chance to slough off the dirty skin of society and live simply and honestly, even imagining that in the new world his wife would create “a new kind of art, where things are reduced to essentials—like cave paintings—and there’s none of this frou-frou art anymore.” 

As we have come to expect, the problems with the modern world are coded in Deliverance as feminine.  Art today is “frou-frou,” which is a frilly dress, all ornamentation, no substance.  Before the canoe trip, Ed finds himself surrounded on the street by women, and looking around at them he is “filled” with “desolation.”  On the morning of his trip, Ed lies in bed with his wife and expresses to her his dissatisfaction with his working life.  She asks if she is somehow at fault for his unhappiness.  He responds:  “’Lord no,’ I said, but it partly was, just as it’s any woman’s fault who represents normalcy.”  So what’s the best way to escape this feminine world with all its feminine restrictions and boring, stifling requirements?  A weekend out with men doing manly things, of course.

If you’ve read my post about Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, you know exactly how little patience I have for this kind of narrative and this ridiculously chauvinistic view of the world.  And if Dickey had told a tale about a man finding his manly self as he lets loose his primal scream in the woods, I would have had no patience for Deliverance.  But instead, Dickey creates something magical, and he does so by putting his story into the first person narration of Ed Gentry.  That story of the girly-modern man who becomes a capital-M real Man is precisely the story that Ed thinks he’s telling, but his bizarre language and obsessions with sex, intimacy, and becoming one with nature give us an entirely different perspective.

In Ed’s mind, he comes to the river as Lewis’s student, and after nearly getting raped and “having to survive,” he becomes his own man.  Once Lewis breaks his thighbone and is unable to take the lead, Ed fills his shoes.  He starts giving the orders to Bobby as he develops the plan: “I walked up and down on that little sandbar, for that should have been my privilege,” he says, claiming his rights as man.  From that moment on, he draws on primal energy: “Then for some reason I stepped into the edge of the river.  In a way, I guess, I wanted to get a renewed feel of all the elements present.”  He gathers strength from the rocks and power from the trees in the scenes that follow.  Whereas before, he couldn’t bring himself to shoot a deer, he will go on from here to shoot a man.  He’ll out-Lewis Lewis by creating a story for the authorities.  Lewis himself tells Ed, “You’re doing it exactly right; you’re doing it better than I could do.”  Go, Ed!  The student has become the master.  His cunning and manliness allow him to escape all danger brought to him by society and he returns home to be “less bored” than before.  His business thrives and he begins to create art in addition to his work.  To Ed, this is a story of triumph, and he is his own hero.

Woo-wee, do I love a first-person narrative!  We are all blind to our own desires, and Ed undermines his story at every turn, which is what raises Deliverance above what it would otherwise be.  Ed is obsessed with two things: first, the desire to be at one with nature or something greater than himself, and second, sex.  And for Ed, these two desires become linked and he is struggling with what he wants and how he sees the world.  We are given a glimpse of this complicated struggle just before the canoe trip, when Ed is having sex with his wife, Martha, who is face down before him:  

It was the heat of another person around me, the moving heat, that brought the image up.  The girl from the studio threw back her hair and clasped her breast, and in the center of Martha’s heaving and expertly working back, the gold eye shone, not with the practicality of sex, so necessary to its survival, but the promise of it that promised other things, another life, deliverance.  

So there he is, having sex with his wife, and he pictures another woman, but he focuses not on her clasped breast, but on the golden mote in her eye which is erotic precisely because it is not about sex at all, but about the thing that sex always promises, an escape from the mundane, the deliverance that gives the novel its title.  So during sex he thinks about the thing that is not sex in order to enjoy the sex that he is having while thinking about not having it.  How beautifully convoluted and vexed is that?!  By the end of the story, that golden promise of deliverance has been transferred from the model to the river, where he had more sex that simultaneously was and was not sex.

Sex is all over the canoe trip.  The obvious example is of course the rape of Bobby and the near-rape of Ed.  That scene is the one thing that everyone knows about the novel.  Before I read the novel, I imagined it was the climax (no pun intended), the horror to cap off a horrifying weekend in the woods.  I was surprised to see that it is the inciting incident, the moment from which everything else springs.  What struck me most about the scene was the utter absurdity of it.  The rapists are given no motivation at all.  These two men are walking through the woods, see these two city slickers, exchange a few words with them, then, without any discussion between themselves, get to tying up Ed and raping Bobby.  It is weird.  Really weird.   It is effective, of course, because it horrifies the audience—it’s why everyone knows about Deliverance in the first place--but more importantly it is the center of Ed’s complicated relationship with sex.  Sex is supposed to be a moment of deliverance, as seen in the passage earlier quoted, but it is always bound up with power and pre-shaped gender roles.  It is no accident that the one sex scene we have between a man and a woman has the woman bent over a pillow, receiving sex from behind, exactly as Bobby is raped at gunpoint.  It is also no accident that Lewis shoots his arrow through the rapist’s back.  The arrow, Lewis’s not-so-symbolic penis, penetrates the man from behind just as the rapist penetrated Bobby.  To complete this association, Ed, who was almost made to perform oral sex on the toothless man, later shoots that same man (or the man he thinks is that same man) in the throat, putting his own arrow/penis through his would-be rapists throat.  Sex, power, and violence become all entangled for Ed, and he doesn’t know how to untangle them.

What forces that tangle into a Gordian Knot is Ed’s wish for connection.  In thinking about the man he is about to kill, the man whom he thinks tried to rape him, Ed reflects:   

If Lewis had not shot his companion, he and I would have made a kind of love, painful and terrifying to me, in some dreadful way pleasurable to him, but we would have been together in the flesh, there on the floor of the woods, and it was strange to think of it.

There is a note of longing in Ed’s reflection, terror and longing co-existing, offering a promise of intimacy, of being together but at the price of pain.  Not coincidentally, the natural world interacts with Ed in his narrative in very sexual ways.  On his way up the cliff side to kill or be killed, Ed describes his motion this way:   

Then I would begin to try to inch upward again, moving with the most intimate motions of my body, motions I had never dared use with Martha, or with any other human woman.  Fear and a kind of enormous moon-blazing sexuality lifted me millimeter by millimeter.

As Ed fucks the mountainside, sex and fear and intimacy are all mixing together, and the combined effect is a sort of elation for Ed.  This is the golden mote that replaces the model’s eye for him.  And as he fuck nature, so nature fucks him.  When he crashes into the river after his rope breaks, Ed narrates, “I yelled a tremendous walled-in yell, and then I felt the current thread through me . . . up my rectum and out my mouth.”  Yelling like Bobby yelled, Ed is sodomized by the water.  But instead of wounding him, the river’s sodomizing has healing properties:  “It had been so many years since I had been really hurt that the feeling was almost luxurious.”

Again and again, Ed uses sexual terms to describe things that are not sexual.  He pees on himself while climbing up the cliff, and the urine “ran with a delicious sexual voiding like a wet dream.”  He takes deep admiration in Lewis’s physique when they go skinny dipping, and when Lewis breaks his leg, Ed pulls Lewis’s pants down and feels the wound:  “Against the back of my hand his penis stirred with pain.”  And as he describe what happens beneath his hand it is unclear if he is talking about the wound or the penis:  “there was a great profound human swelling under my hand.”  When he removes the arrow that has pierced his side, he first tries to pull the arrow through the wound.  Once the arrow is stuck, he notes, “I licked my hand and put saliva on the shaft, hoping the lubrication would help,” which reads a lot more like masturbation than first aid.

The thing that makes the novel so riveting is the way that Ed (and I would think to some extent Dickey himself) is incapable of bringing oneness, sex, violence, and power into a harmonious relationship.  He cannot conceive of connection without violence resulting from a power imbalance, even as connection is what he desperately desires.  He draws strength from trees and rocks and water, but just as frequently those symbols of nature are symbolically fucked by him and fuck him in return.  Pleasure and freedom are bound up with blood and pain, and try as he might, Ed cannot separate them.  And Ed, through his narration, never shows an awareness of all these warring desires.  He thinks he is telling one narrative, as Dickey tells us another.  It is a masterful use of the first-person narration, and it is the compounding of this narrative tension with the tensions of plot that make this an unforgettable and brilliant novel.