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"Someone whose eyes will take the place of mine. Someone capable not only of observing the world for me but of communicating his observations to me so that I can then transmute them into prose. Into my prose."So begins the strange symbiotic relationship between the two protagonists of A Closed Book, a relationship that becomes increasingly disturbing and unsettling. Recounted entirely in finely realised dialogue and what seems to be interjections of internal monologue, the reader is confined entirely to the realm of sound, to voices, as if we are being asked to privilege the evidence of the ear over that of the eye, to experience the world from the point of view of the blind writer himself. As the book progresses, however, typographical and factual oddities accumulate, clues towards a darker design that is made manifest in the book's final twist, where questions raised earlier-- of trust, of real and figurative blindness, of self- regard (in both senses), of the power of language--are recast from a brutally different perspective.
Gilbert Adair previously won the Scott-Moncrieff prize for his extraordinary translation of the late Georges Perec's A Void--a novel composed without the letter "e"-- and some of that author's wit, allusiveness and self- conscious artistry find their way into Adair's new book, transmuted into something altogether more sinister. This is a powerful psychological thriller, well-paced, energetic (and occasionally very funny) but it also incorporates some subtle philosophical and literary questions into its narrative: How far can we believe what we read (or hear) and how does a reader's trust in a writer's fictional world equate with the trust required in allowing someone to interpret the world for us? See for yourself. --Burhan Tufail --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
An isolated cottage deep in the heart of the Cotswolds. A writer's den, as dusty, gloomy and full of exotic objets d'art as the cell of a medieval monk. Two men sit opposite each other, one of them talking, the other typing. But why, in such already sombre surroundings, does one of the two men wear thick dark glasses? What is the other typing so industriously and so apparently imperturbably? Why is the light left on in an unoccupied bathroom? What is the precise significance of the jigsaw puzzle laid out on the study table? Why, too, are some of its pieces missing? Whose statue actually stands on the empty plinth in Trafalgar Square? Who or what, above all, is causing an unearthly shadow to fall across these two inextricably interwoven destinies?
With an atmosphere of eerie morbidity reminiscent of Poe, Hoffmann and even Stephen King, and an eleventh-hour double whammy of a twist of which Agatha Christie herself would have been envious, Gilbert Adair's novel, one which - for a reason it would be unpardonable to divulge in advance - the reader hears rather than reads, is one of his most brilliant.
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I would recommend reading the book to anyone who is willing to put aside time, as once you start you will not be able to put it down.
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