If there’d been a Gilbert and Sullivan opera about Roland Barthes, it might have sounded like John Banville’s The Blue Guitar

Banville’s absurdly mannered, derivative novel is a crime against the English language

12 September 2015

9:00 AM

12 September 2015

9:00 AM

The Blue Guitar John Banville

Viking, pp.256, £14.99, ISBN: 9780241004326

The Blue Guitar is John Banville’s 16th novel. Our narrator-protagonist is a painter called Oliver Orme. We are in Ireland, but it’s hard to say exactly where, or exactly when. There are telephones and cars, but the dress code is antiquated: hats, canes, pocket watches. This is ‘the new-old world that Godley’s Theorem wrought’: people have ‘learned to harvest energy from the oceans and out of the very air itself’. Godley, presumably, is not the real-life economist Wynne Godley but the fictional mathematician Adam Godley of Banville’s The Infinities (2009), whose discoveries supplant relativity and quantum physics.

So, the world of The Blue Guitar is a version of steampunk, straight out of genre fiction. The plot’s an old one, too: Oliver is married to Gloria but he’s having an affair with Polly, the wife of his good friend Marcus. The Paris Review asked Banville: ‘Do you have sympathy for the characters you create?’ His reply: ‘I suppose it’s possible that a writer would have feeling for his characters, but I can’t see how… they don’t exist. They’re manikins made of words and they carry my rhythms.’ It’s a crude take on Nabokov’s witty formulation — ‘my characters are galley slaves’ — from a lesser writer, a writer who doesn’t understand that a large part of fiction’s power is precisely that it can provoke sympathy for those galley slaves and manikins, even though we know they don’t exist.

Fittingly for a painter with ‘a very inward view of things’, Oliver Orme’s chief function is as conduit for Banville’s musings on art. Except they’re not really Banville’s musings. Just as Orme is a compulsive thief, ‘doing a favour’ to the trinkets he steals ‘by dint of renewing them’, so Banville ransacks the past century of critical thought. Every exhausted formulation. The instability of language: ‘How treacherous language is, more slippery even than paint.’ The impossibility of objective reality: ‘But does that world exist, what I have here called world?’

Banville ‘renews’ these fatigued, stock ideas by rendering them in fustian prose. The lexicon includes rubious, voluptuary, prestidigitation, availeth naught, erstwhile, therein, withal, heretofore, asportation, haruspicating, micturating, repast. If Gilbert and Sullivan had ever written about Roland Barthes, it might have sounded a bit like this. Only it would have been funnier, and more intelligible. Sample sentence: ‘I don’t believe in much, in the way of morals and manners, but I am convinced that disorder can be, not ordered, perhaps, but arranged, in certain, not unharmonious, configurations.’ Banville’s fussy, mannered, impacted prose frequently sends the weary reader back to the start of the paragraph to try again. And not because Banville is genuinely avant-garde. It’s a karaoke version of Beckett (often cited approvingly by Banville’s admirers as an influence) and Kafka (there’s an extended dreamlike section in debt to The Trial).

But Banville’s greatest act of larceny is against the English language itself. He knows how you tweak a cliché, how you ‘refresh’ the obdurately stale. I leave you with this small anthology from a writer who has boasted repeatedly of his Flaubertian attention to the sentence. ‘These are murky depths and are probably better not plumbed all the way to the bottom.’ ‘Could I trust myself now to keep my head above water, in these turbid and ever-deepening straits?’ ‘Jealousy when it really got its claws into him would give him a raptor’s unblinking, prismatic eye.’ ‘I was sound as a bell, as a belfryful of bells.’ ‘I had already washed my own hands of my own so-called self.’ If only.

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Available from the Spectator Bookshop, £12.99 Tel: 08430 600033. Claire Lowdon’s novel Left of the Bang was published in June.

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Show comments
  • erica

    If only our reviewer were up to the task of actually reading the book at hand instead of preening; vitriol under the cover of clever toward a master writer is a time-“honored” practice, but one that seems particularly cynical, alas.

  • Castro Spendlove

    That’s the harshest review of a Banville book I’ve ever read. The odd quotation of isolated sentences won’t put me off. I’ve been under his spell since someone gave me a copy of Mefisto; a totally immersive experience.

  • mwenge

    There’s nothing masterly about Banville’s appalling prose. He is a pompous Z-list Nabokov. This hatchet job is long overdue.

    • erica

      John Banville is perhaps the finest living writer working in the English language — and this “reviewer” will carry this albatross for the rest of her literary days.

      Her review smells of classism, ageism and nationalism (newly-minted Oxonian smugly scorns the uppity, self-taught Irish scribbler).

      • mwenge

        John Banville isn’t even the finest living writer in Donnybrook, Co. Dublin. This exquisite dagger to the heart of a review will live in history as the day we all acknowledged he has been writing the same tone-deaf rubbish re-tread of Lolita-meets-Ada since at least 1997.