Shroud : [Hardcover]

Most of 'Shroud' is narrated by Axel Vander, a wonderfully bitter old man: he has lost his wife and he has come to the end of his career as a critic, and he now spends his time looking back at how he has lived. We learn that he has received a letter, and that the content of this letter has compelled him to travel to Turin (much is made of the presence - and absence - of the Turin Shroud); it seems that a young woman has discovered a secret in Vander's past, and Vander wishes to confront the woman. Part of the what hooks the reader in the novel's first phase is Banville's masterly use of the mystery of the secret and the mystery of the finder of the secret to build tension and anxiety: we are never quite sure of what it is that Vander hopes to achieve, but there is always the suggestion of aggression and anger in Vander's narrative. We are not prepared for what in fact occurs, in relation to the young woman and Vander. The lives of these two key protagonists become entwined in a beautiful and sad relationship that culminates in a powerful (and intentionally underplayed) tragedy.

When the end of 'Shroud' is reached, when the reader is moments from closing the book, there is a feeling of both closure and irresolution. The novel itself feels complete: on reaching the final sentences it is as though everything has been carefully planned and plotted, from first word to last. 'Shroud' feels whole and complete - a work of literature, fixed forever. But within this novel, Banville constructs a narrative that does not provide the reader with all the answers, with clear cut conclusions or certainties. In fact, the opposite is true, and so 'Shroud' keeps the reader thinking, long after they have finished reading.

Vander has arrived in Turin to meet Cass Cleave, one of the peripheral
spirits from Mr. Banville's previous novel, 'Eclipse', who may (or may
not, of course) know something about Vander's other life, before he
left Europe for America. Vander, a brutish old literary critic, is
worried that his elaborately constructed life may suddenly be exposed
as being as insubstantial as we know it is (we are, after all, in a
John Banville novel). This is the core of the narrative.

If this seems like a flimsy foundation for a novel, it is:
Mr. Banville's prose keeps the whole edifice standing. He writes very
well indeed, with sentences that demand to be turned and gazed at from
every angle. The point here is to make prose as lyrical as poetry, and
Mr. Banville comes as close as anyone to achieving this. The perfectly
weighted and balanced sentences of 'Shroud' trace out Vander's
disastrous collision with Cass Cleave, acted out against Turin's narrow
streets and marbled piazzas. A sharply drawn supporting cast provide
intermittent blasts of Beckettian comedic relief. It has been remarked
that the reason why Irish legend is full of stories of ghosts and
spirits is simply because, in that northern isle, the light is bad:
with such poor illumination, anything can be seen. It is remarkable to
see how well Mr. Banville's ghosts survive in the harsh light of Turin,
where most of the 'action' of the book takes place. Mr. Banville
somehow casts the city in a gloomy, indistinct aura (who could imagine
Italy could be this dark?), by virtue of observing almost everything
through the rheumy old eye of Alex Vander (literally: Vander lost his
other eye in unromantic circumstances in wartime London).

At the end of it all, when the narrative of 'Shroud' intersects that of
'Eclipse' (attentive readers will already know Cass' fate), it seems
that Mr. Banville has succeeded, at least in the sense that by the
book's last pages we feel fully immersed in the somewhat gloomy world
he has created, and leave it as if waking from a dream. Remarkably, he
makes us feel a twinge or two of compassion for Alex Vander. It is true
that those unmoved by the quality of the writing will doubtless find
the book's pace slow, whilst those distracted by the story's many
allusions (certain twentieth century philosophers and writers make
several oblique appearances) might find that sometimes Mr. Banville
tries perhaps a fraction too hard to add meaning to his ornate
prose. But for me, despite its pages being peopled by many shadows, the
book hovers persistently in the mind after the last sentence is
read. Along with the question of Alex Vander's true identity, this is
yet another mystery to ponder.

Like Banville’s narrators in other novels, the elderly Axel Vander of Shroud is unreliable and often dishonest, self-concerned but not self-aware. Consummately venal (though beautifully realized), he is a character who blithely takes advantage of whatever circumstances arise, with no concern for the consequences, except to himself. Cass Cleave, the daughter of Alexander Cleave, the narrator of Banville’s previous novel, Eclipse, has visions and seizures, and Vander regards her as mad, but she and Vander develop a relationship of almost religious significance. He is a depraved and amoral old man living a life of personal un-truth, while she is a sick, avenging angel, striving to connect the disjunctions in her life so that she can become an integrated, whole person.

In Turin, where she joins Axel, Cass sees religious symbolism in common events, finding an ordinary breakfast a form of communion. Artworks, especially crucifixion scenes by artists from the various settings in which the novel takes place (Cranach, Bosch, Memling, and Van Eyck; and Tintoretto, Mantegna, and Bellini) further develop the symbolism. Always present in the background, of course, is the Shroud of Turin, which may be the real burial cloth of Jesus--or may not be. Parallels and contrasts between Vander and Jesus abound.

Banville’s novel is intense, highly compressed in its development of overlapping themes, and filled with suspense, both real and intellectual. Every plot detail expands his themes of identity and selfhood, the relationships we create with the outside world, and our desire to be remembered after our deaths. Banville’s prose is exquisite, creating mystery by introducing details at a snail’s pace, conveying attitude, and acutely observing sensuous details and physical reactions. He juxtaposes unlikely events from different times to convey information, providing voluptuous descriptions which contain both an idea and its antithesis simultaneously. Major surprises occur in the final five pages, not inserted as literary tricks, but generated naturally out of the action and interactions. This is a challenging and fascinating novel, beautifully crafted and rewarding on every level. Mary Whipple