Close Encounters of the Literary Kind

Nothing, or close to nothing, beats the vice-like grip of a great novel, when you’re in the hands of a skilled writer. Like a love-sick youth you can’t help but find gaps in the day for extra time with it. Then, as you pass the half-way mark, anticipation and enjoyment become ever-so-slightly tainted by the niggling regret that soon this thrilling, funny, gorgeous serif-font of a book will join the have-been-reads; never again will you hurtle towards the final page without knowing what the heck is in store. Though you can, thank goodness, resample its delicious prose and cracking dialogue, and maybe even savour any nuances missed on the first visit.

The inspiration for this fanboy response, if you’re wondering, is John Fowles’ hidden treasure, Mantissa.* Having devoured three of his novels — planning to tally four before long — I enthuse about his work to anyone who, cocking their head to see the cover, dares to ask “What are you reading?” Fellow Fowles fans have a combination of The Collector, The Magus, and The French Lieutenant’s Woman under their belts, but Mantissa, it seems, flies under the radar. I heartily recommend you dive in and read this novel without knowing too much about it. Don’t look it up on the web. Read the back-cover blurb at most, then turn to page one. Well, page five if you have a 2009 Vintage edition. It’s rather saucy in parts, so closed-minded prudes should leave the queue and buy themselves a Dan Brown.

I read the final pages of Mantissa this evening. Wistfully removing my bookmark from its pages, I turned to the online archive for The New York Times. Freely available, the NYT book reviews date back to 1981, and they’re better than the other guff served on the internet. John Leonard’s 1982 review is surprisingly scathing, though he concedes, “You may enjoy it more than I did.” Yes, thank-you, Leonard: this novel has won over my literary heart and written its way into my shortlist of favourite fiction.


* Fellow Renaissance members, if any of you are out there, may delight in the various passages — and sole footnote — that reflexively undermine modern fiction and the novel itself, à la the countless self-effacing items of prose posted by several of us during our heyday(s).