Our perceptions of time and its passing provide the dominant theme
for this enterprising collection of fifteen short stories, published
at a time when the globe’s preoccupation with the coming millennium
threatens to become even more obsessive.
Appropriately enough, Wall’s cast of characters (mostly first
person narrators) occupy locations at the farthest removes of
past, present and future. But the author’s ambitions in this respect
often clash with the format in which they are expressed. The conception
of, for example, A to Z and Logical Positivists is too rudimentary
to sustain the ideas that inform them. On the other hand, certain
millenarian and epistemological ideas articulated in other narratives
are often difficult to grasp and infect the style with a conceit
that the author is, on occasion, struggling to suppress. This
is most evident in Intelligent Terminal, a sci-fi tale that cries
out for unfavourable comparison with William Gibson. The knock-about
style and ironic humour of Pig Man of Gandara is too reminiscent
of an out-take from The Life of Brian to convince. Two other stories
(Great White and Outside the Law) are constructed with an abruptness
that gives them the appearance of stage directions for larger
compositions.
In general, however, it is impossible to deny the existence of
a formidable skill at work. It is a real delight to come across
such captivating openings that adorn Underneath the Smile, An
Old Man in Florence and The Painter. Wall possesses a consistent
flair for producing a memorable metaphor (‘Her fingers were like
insects mating in the air.’) and originating instant environments
through vigorous imagery (‘Dead meals scattered over the pavement.
A multi-ethnic gastronomic morgue’). I also found the joke about
the Vienna Circle and the Vienna slice irresistible. But Wall
is at his best in his creation of characters whose personalities
are both corroded and distorted by their inability to come to
terms with the onrush of time. Rembrandt Dying, The Painter and
Richard Dadd in Bedlam are the most successful in reflecting this
failure and the inability of relationships and, in particular,
art to obviate it. These characters have no other comfort except
millenarianism or madness. One can’t help being reminded of Bruce
Chatwin’s warning: ‘Art isn’t enough. Art lets you down.’ The
consolation or otherwise of art is deserving of a much larger
canvas than Wall allows for here, but it cannot be doubted that
he possesses the necessary talent to undertake such a task.
Reviewed by Robert Whitehouse
