Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #119728 in Books
• Published on: 2007-02-01
• Binding: Paperback
• 208 pages

The Observer rev'd by David Smith
"a slim and brilliant novel"

Daily Telegraph, rev Sinclair McKay
"compelling psychological thriller [...] a richly textured
evocation of growing up under totalitarianism... It is utterly gripping"

* Mail on Sunday
`James Lasdun's evocation of life behind the Berlin Wall is
comically grim, horrible plausible and exceptionally well realised'

Customer Reviews

Thought-provoking page turner
This is a short book which I got through in one day. The writing style is direct and arresting, and the drama begins on page one.

The story which unfolds is of a young man's growing up in East Germany, his passions, ambitions, and plottings. At the start of the story we find him at a party in the US, a few years after the fall of communist régime in Eastern Europe. As the book progresses he recounts a series of incidents from his former life which explain what has brought him to where he is now.

I did not realise how literally the reader should understand the title of the book. Each chapter reveals a further treachery. Some forced on the characters by the political system they are forced to live under, but others are unforgivable personal betrayals. As the layers are peeled away, the ugly truths are revealed, and mystery at the beginning of the book finally makes sense.

The final years of the East German state seem to be in vogue at the moment. I read this book having just seen The Life of Others with which it shares a similar setting. What struck me in both cases was the obvious rot of the communist system. The corruption was so blatant, the coercion and propaganda so crude, that it is hard for an outsider to understand how those living there could assume that the system would continue, given that nobody had any faith in it.

But Lasdun also shows that even within the immoral system, people still could choose to behave humanely and morally.

This is deft story telling; in a few short sentences Lasdun can draw a character so well you feel you know them. The speed at which the events are related and the complete lack of sentimentality produce a powerfully told tale that will stay with you.

Ripley Goes East
There is something compelling and yet repulsive about hero Stefan Vogel in Lasdun's latest novel. Unlike the self deluding Miller in the previous (and wonderful) Horned Man, Vogel is calculating, sly and manipulative but retains the sympathy of the reader nonetheless through his honesty, vulnerability and sheer audacity. Vogel builds a false edifice around himself built on lies (more than seven i think), compounding layer upon layer of untruth, bluff and misunderstanding. We squirm with shared embarrassment, watch his delicate web wobble as Stefan is almost exposed as a fraud in a claustrophobic East Germany itself struggling to maintain its communist principles and ideals when the foundations of society are crumbling in the face of western capitalist democracy. The psychological power struggle is as absorbing as a spy story although it isn't state secrets but Stefan's secret life that is at stake and he'll do anything, betray anyone, family, girlfriends, friends to protect it. Lasdun's poetic prose is excellent as usual and the story is leavened by his sharp wit but the ending is extremely tense and subtly resolved leaving you shocked by, and yet resigned to, the final twist. An impressive literary display, a character study to compare with Highsmith's Ripley and a thoroughly entertaining read.

The Scorned Man
James Lasdun's new novel is less eccentric than his first, The Horned Man, but all the more seductive for it. Stefan Vogel, immigrant from the former East Germany to the USA, begins his diary with an account of how a woman threw a glass of wine over him at a party. (Yes, that's not blood on the front cover...) The event is recounted, or recalled, several times by him over the following pages, sometimes briefly

"Are you Stefan Vogel? Yes. Splash!"

and sometimes with all his poet's tools to the fore

"And out of the points of light gleaming about her, the goblet of red wine, which I have not previously noticed, detaches itself, coming perplexingly towards me, in a perplexingly violent manner, its ruby hemisphere exploding from the glass into elongated fingers like those of some ghastly accusatory hand hurtling through the air at my body until with a great crimson splatter I am suddenly standing there soaking and reeking, blazoned in the livery of shame."

Eventually the book settles down to recount the seemingly unrelated tale of how Stefan came to go West. This makes up most of the book, and it turns out that this is inextricably linked to why he had his clothes ruined with wine, though it's not until near the end that we find out the connection. In the meantime the book has some of the very finest writing I have read in ages, which made me mentally note the book down early on as a possible Best New Book of the Year. For example the following, which comes at the end of a series of petty lies-upon-lies that young Stefan tells which causes upset among his family ("Every lie," the epigraph by Martin Luther reminds us, "must beget seven more lies if it is to resemble the truth"), and finds Stefan in an impossibly confused mixture of feelings brought on by his lies:

"A few years later, when I was making a private study of the career of Joseph Stalin, I came across descriptions of his seventieth birthday: the enormous portrait of him suspended over Moscow from a balloon, lit up at night by searchlights; the special meeting of the Soviet Academy of Sciences honouring 'the greatest genius of the human race' ... The festivities culminated in a gala at the Bolshoi Theatre where the leaders of all the world's communist parties stood up one by one to make elaborately flattering speeches to Stalin, and to lavish him with gifts. One can imagine his state of mind as he sat on the stage receiving these tributes - the absolute disbelief in the sincerity of a single word being uttered; the compulsive need to hear them none the less; the antennae bristlingly attuned to the slightest lapse in the effort to portray conviction...

It seems to me that at the age of thirteen, I had already developed the cynicism of a seventy-year-old dictator."

This to me felt quite brilliant - the real thing - and it was only because the book seemed to tail off a little toward the middle (as did The Horned Man) that I ended up marking it down mentally as a four-star job rather than a full flowering five. Having said that, the end of the book recasts it all in such a light, that I think there must be some truth in this comment from the review in the Independent:

"This is a novel to be read twice. Some pleasures, such as the compelling prose, will be savoured with as much relish on a second reading, while the tension will be replaced by an appreciation of James Lasdun's cunning."

So: five it is after all. I do feel a need to re-read, almost immediately, in fact; and the last book I did that with was Patrick McGrath's Dr Haggard's Disease, which must be a good sign. [Warning: extremely bad closing pun even by my standards approaching] I'll be sure to let you know if the next read turns out to be even better than the Lasdun.