The Quincunx

I feel a sense of accomplishment, having finally read this book. It languished on my shelves for about 30 years. That’s a long time. One wonders why I even bought it since it appears I had no desire to read it. But I did. Indeed, there are still a fair number of titles on my shelves that have waited my attention for as long as it had. They do come down, on occasion. And I do have plans to read each and every one of them, too.

So, why did this book by Charles Pallister, first published in 1989, wait as long as it did for my attention. Its weight and girth, I imagine. It is a weighty tome. It clocks in at nearly 800 pages; but in fact, given its font size and narrow line spacing, it is far lengthier than that. Compared with most hardcovers (my copy is not a hardcover, although its paperback dimensions are the same), its wordcount would appear twice that length. (I’ve not counted, or even crunched a rough estimate, so my assumption is more feel than fact.) It did not wait as long as that (1989), however – I was likely only peripherally aware of its existence before my purchase, since I was not reading books of that genera at the time. When, then, did I become aware of it? That, in itself, is a story.

I was on vacation. In the Philippines. Scuba diving. Three of our number were sitting around our usual table, after the sun sank below the horizon, drinking wine, discussing travels, film, books, as we were wont to do. It was then that one of the two women with me asked me if I’d ever read The Quincunx? I admitted to being unaware of it, and asked her what it was about. She said it was difficult to describe; but was convinced, given my obvious love of literature, that I should read it. That was not what I would call a convincing recommendation. Honestly, I wondered if she had, herself, given that I believe it is easily described, if only in its broadest strokes; or whether she purposely chose not describe it, knowing that I might not bother to, if she had. I suspect the last.

Long story already long, I did buy the book – let’s say in 1997, within the year of returning home. And I did dive into it. I got about 250 pages in. I set it aside. It was not what I was accustomed to then. But it was familiar. I’d read some Dickens (A Tale of Two Cities, in high school; and David Copperfield, the year prior). It was perhaps that I’d read Dickens recently that she recommended it. I did not, however, tell her that I found Copperfield long and hard-going, at the time. What can I say? I was still a relatively young man and was trying to impress an attractive woman. Long story still long, I set The Quincunx aside, not sure if I was defeated by it, or merely bored, not sure that I would ever tackle it again. In my mind’s eye, I suspect I knew that I would; when I was ready. And there it sat until this year, its pages yellowing, the glued binding growing brittle, its exterior protective plastic film crinkling.

I finally pulled it down this year, thinking I was going to finally defeat Goliath. I would, I vowed, consume 10 or 20 pages a day, and get through this behemoth, even if it took me a year or so.

I kept that promise to myself. And more. As I plumbed deeper its depth, I found myself ever more intrigued by its complexity. It is that, complex. And downright Dickensian. Indeed, it is so Dickensian that it would appear to be all of Dickens’ works in one. It begins innocently enough, a small boy leading an altogether idyllic life in a quaint, sleepy Georgian Era village, about the time that Jane Austen’s works are summing up. Before too many pages unfold, we understand there is a greater mystery afoot, that Johnny’s mother is frightened, perhaps in hiding, unwilling to answer her son’s questions concerning her life, his origins, why his father is absent. A break-in of their cottage occurs. A letter case if stolen. His mother is very much disturbed by this burglary, more than one would imagine possible. Indeed, he discovers his mother is terrified of the local lord, too.

Thus begins, The Quincunx. What follows is an ever-tightening web of plots and conspiracies and their eventual destitution. What begins as David Copperfield, very soon becomes Great Expectations, Nicholas Nickleby, and Oliver Twist, and finally Bleak House. The more I read of Charles Dickens, the more his works appear to influence this sweeping tale spanning a decade or so.

I must say that it reads easier than Dickens, if you are concerned that you would not enjoy this book by its parallels to its muse. Its prose is mostly modern, with a few antiquated spellings here and there. In fact, it’s a page turner. It races along faster and faster as Johnny ages, as one might expect, small boys being wholly dependant on their guardians, oblivious to the events that revolve around them, only becoming more aware and independent as their means warrants, until they have, potentially, more agency than those sworn to protect them.

It's an extraordinary novel. If it had been written in the 19^th Century it would be a classic today, and never out of print – or so I believe. I suppose it only graces the shelves of the largest book chain franchises these days, what with the dizzying speed of publishing now. Chains stock only what sells (or what publishers choose to promote); and most titles likely only reside on their shelves for a few months before being remaindered. Truth be told, I rarely see classics on the shelves of my smallish chain bookstore. And when I do, it is rare to see their complete oeuvre. Even modern classics rarely appear: Forster, Proust, Hemingway, and Fitzgerald were once always in appearance. So too Shakespeare. Not so anymore. These days, Mark Danielewski’s House of Leaves, or Donna Tart’s The Secret History almost never grace its shelves. Stephen King and James Patterson, however, abound. Even such sellers as John Grisham and Tom Clancy have faded from the pre-eminence they once held. What hope then would Charles Palliser’s The Quincunx.

Dickens December

 

“I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul.”
― Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

Long before I began “participating” in Jane Austen July, I began reading Charles Dickens in December. I began this practice when I read A Christmas Carol over the one holiday season (honestly, is there a better time to read A Christmas Carol?) after I’d received a number of Dickens volumes as a gift from my sister the year prior (the best gift I’d received in years, if not decades). I thought that having those hardcover volumes was as good an excuse as any to dive into Dickens when I did. I’ll admit to not having read Dickens in years. Indeed, at that time I had truly only read two of his books, A Tale of Two Cities (in high school), and David Copperfield (about a decade prior – and, both those times, those readings felt like a titanic undertaking, considering their word count) – despite the belief that I loved Dickens.

But did I? I said I did. But if I were honest, I’d have to admit that I loved the idea of Dickens. I’d watched Scrooge on TV for decades, in numerous adaptations; and versions of Oliver Twist, musical and otherwise; but I had only the above experience of reading him.

Which brings me back to where I began: I endeavoured to finally read Dickens. I was pleasantly surprised. Hitherto, I found reading Dickens a chore. In high school, I found his prose antiquated, and thus difficult. When I read David Copperfield in my early 30’s I was not in the habit of reading the classics; so, I read it in fits and starts. This time however, I found Dickens a both profound and funny. I learned something of life in the mid-1800s reading A Christmas Carol. I actually laughed out loud. Most importantly, I completed it with ease. I expect that it was short helped. That experience led to The Cricket on the Hearth the next year. And then The Chimes the year after that. Was I hooked? Not yet. But his Christmas tales paved the way to my deciding to read the rest of those gifted Dickens volumes.

I suppose, regardless my having read the Christmas tales as mentioned, I began my journey and eventual love affair with Dickens the very next year when I read Great Expectations. I’d watched a few videos that suggested it as probably the best entry to Charles Dickens; and I must say that I wholeheartedly agree with their opinion, now that I’ve read it. Once again, it helps that it is not very long (on the Dickensian scale, anyway).

Great Expectations led to The Pickwick Papers, then to Oliver Twist, then The Mystery of Edwin Drood, and then most recently to Nicholas Nickleby.

Shall I expound on each? Perhaps a word or two. GE is a phenomenal novel, certainly the best I’ve read by Dickens in these recent readings, thus far. PP was enlightening, showcasing Dickens’ earliest “novel” – in parenthesis because, to my mind, it is more a collection of linked vignettes than it is a bonified novel. Indeed, PP has more in common with his Sketches by Boz than it does his later works. OT, probably the most famous of his novels for its numerous adaptations, is a novel; but I gather it does not draw the same love these days as his latter novels do. I loved it, despite its criticisms by those supposedly more learned than I. ED, his last work, is unfinished, Dickens dying midway through writing it. It may be a miracle he got as far along as he did, considering the state of his health at the time. ED shows the same complexity in its unfolding as did GE. NN exhibits a leap in Dickens’ maturity of writing, fairly early on. It resides midway between PP and OT, to my mind, in execution: it is most assuredly a novel, but it is still rather episodic (as was PP) in form. One expects that, I suppose, considering Dickens published each of his books in serial monthly installments, throughout his entire career. One can see him change his mind as the stories progress, especially early on, certain characters falling by the wayside as he found their story either less interesting than others, or irrelevant to the plot – more so in PP than in NN, where I suspect he may have plotted out the progress of the book before beginning.

Last year, I read a couple of Dickens biographies, as well: The first was Charles Dickens: A Life, by Claire Tomalin; the second, The Mystery of Charles Dickens, by A.N. Wilson. Both were enlightening; but the Tomalin title was more inclusive (albeit more focused on his later life and his affair with Ellen Ternan), whereas the Wilson biography was far more concerned with how each of Dickens’ books could be construed as being culled from his own personal experiences, veiled biographies.

This year I am reading The Old Curiosity Shop and Sketches by Boz. I know something of how OCS unfolds, if nothing of the plot: Thus far it reads episodically as did PP and NN. Indeed, I see Dickens change his mind a few chapters in, changing the narration from a third-person-singular observer’s voice, to a more omnipotent view. The writer makes mistakes, and changes his mind between chapbook submissions. SB is Dickens’ very earliest works, short vignettes published in newspapers and magazines, before becoming a novelist, in earnest. One hears him find his voice in these sketches, in which he is an apt and consummate observer of the city around him. Honestly, I highly recommend this book: the sketches help illuminate Dickens’ world.

I’ve a number of Dickens’ works ahead of me, still, most of them long – indeed, his longest titles are still ahead of me. I do intend to reread both A Tale of Two Cities and David Copperfield, as well, understanding I come at them with a more mature outlook. This will take years still; but in the end, I’ll read all of Dickens, just as I will soon have read all of Jane Austen.

“The pain of parting is nothing to the joy of meeting again.”
― Charles Dickens, Nicholas Nickleby