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.