The kind of chaos in life, described above, can be good for many things: a catalyst for change, a fresh start, a reality check, more. It is not, however, generally a great catalyst for consuming literature. To munch down on a good book requires time. Time to let it sit, stew, and affect you, the way I would like to be able to do with anything I push towards you here.
In situations like these, I’ve found one either clings to the reality of the blazing fire, or they find escapism (for me, this is fantasy novels). As such, I did not think I’d have much to write about for a while. But as we know, you can find peace in the eye of the storm. For me, the eye of this one was found somewhere between climbing down a traffic light one evening, a second-hand book emporium, and resting my head on an air mattress in my new apartment.
Nestled in a nook on Marrickville road, Urchin Books, a life and literary haven. My first visit was born, like so many great things in life, from a procrastination wander. On my way to get groceries, I stumbled upon it, and abandoned my quest for apples in favour of the crunch of pages. My food money traded for books, I carried with me three new (to me) texts: Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabocov; The Leopard by Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa and The Laying On Of Hands by Alan Bennett. The latter of which I’m focusing on today.
Determined to feed myself with words and rare winter sunshine, in place of fruits and vegetables–which in hindsight may have served me better at the time–I dug in. And was disappointed. I was hoping for either straight comedy, absurdism, escapism, or something either deeply profound or bad enough to make me think ‘hey, it could be worse.’ Instead I got something I’m not quite sure how to describe. Most accurately I can now say, it is a combination of all of the above.
I started reading and honestly, I hated it. Whether that was a reaction or reverberation to the tumultuousness of the time, or just that I was in the wrong mindset for the genre, I am not sure. But it happens. Sometimes you have to give up on a book because it is just the wrong time. As long as I promise myself to revisit, it’s okay. And revisit I did.
Immediately witty, charming and irreverent, The Laying on of Hands is a story about Clive, and his funeral. Mainly his funeral. First published on the third of September 2001, and very much a product of its time, it is not–as you might expect from the title–a story of religious faith. It is, however, a mordant depiction of human nature.
From a far back pew, somewhere to the side, our narrator expresses his disdain for the rigmarole, the saxophone and poetry, the pomp and circumstance of the whole funeral thing. It is noted many times, and each with the same comical vigour, that each person in attendance is present only for themselves and their social standing. Clive has died in Peru, too young and semi-recently to the story. He was a masseur. Somehow, everyone in attendance is either exceptionally wealthy, famous, talented, or considers themselves to be. Socialites, actors, musicians. Yet somehow none of them know each other, or know how they each knew Clive. I’ll remind you that,
“Clive had been a masseur; there was no secret about that. It was something he was very good at and his skill transcended mere physical manipulation. Many of his clients attested to a feeling of warmth that seemed to flow through his fingers and for which there was no orthodox physiological explanation. ‘He has healing hands’ was one way of putting it or (this from the more mystically inclined) ‘He has the Touch.’”
Truly, The Laying On Of Hands is hilarious, profound, relevant, and very worth a quick read (I do mean quick, we’re talking two hundred and ten pages here). More importantly, if there’s a bookshop in the eye of your storm, pick up whatever you can. Because whether it is good or not, it is better than being blown away.
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