Posts Tagged ‘truth’

This week I had a student preparing to enter a course of study that I felt was completely wrong for her, so we took the Myers-Briggs personality test, and that helped steer her in a better direction. It reminded me of a lot of truths about myself that I don’t often think about, or that I think of as pathological when they’re really not, like my aversion to conflict. It made explicit the fact that an aversion to conflict and a strong desire to help people can make me popular to others, but that it’s very hard for me to trust them. The doors of my heart are made of heavy steel, and once shut they do not open easily. It’s unfortunately sort of easy to shut them – don’t do something you say that you will, lie to me, don’t try hard at your job or schoolwork, don’t finish things that you start, treat my relationship with my children as if it were unimportant simply because I don’t see them very often, take delight in the conflicts of others, tell me not to trust someone close to me, use the phrase ‘the gay lifestyle,’ that sort of thing. The high standards I have for friendship sometimes makes it seem miraculous that I have any friends at all, and truthfully I don’t keep many people close to me. Those people I do don’t always realize how close they are to me, or how few people are as close to me as they are. I was interested at the way added a fifth element, so now I’m INFJ-T, the T meaning Turbulent. This refers to my habit of second-guessing all my decisions and actions, which has a strong effect on the way my Counselor/Advocate personality expresses itself.

Rereading this book, I was a little surprised to see how strongly my life and especially my bloglife are influenced by it. Unlike some of my colleagues, I see the value in people like this:

The common reader, as Dr Johnson implies, differs from the critic and the scholar. He is worse educated, and nature has not gifted him so generously. He reads for his own pleasure rather than to impart knowledge or correct the opinions of others. Above all, he is guided by an instinct to create for himself, out of whatever odds and ends he can come by, some kind of whole – a portrait of a man, a sketch of an age, a theory of the art of writing. He never ceases, as he reads, to run up some rickety and ramshackle fabric which shall give him the temporary satisfaction of looking sufficiently like the real object to allow of affection, laughter, and argument. Hasty, inaccurate, and superficial, snatching now this poem, now that scrap of old furniture, without caring where he finds it or of what nature it may be so long as it serves his purpose and rounds his structure, his deficiencies as a critic are too obvious to be pointed out; but if he has, as Dr Johnson maintained, some say in the final distribution of poetical honours, then, perhaps, it may be worth while to write down a few of the ideas and opinions which, insignificant in themselves, yet contribute to so mighty a result.

Notice the reflection of my reading habits here. Yes, I get into these high-culture moods sometimes, but I mix Thomas Hardy with Christopher Moore, and French Enlightenment thinkers with mid-twentieth century sociologists, and it’s all a big mishmash of words. I may impart some knowledge, but I’m more interested in receiving it; I have little interest in correcting the opinions of others if those opinions are thoughtfully considered. That both gives me some value as a teacher and keeps me from realizing my full potential in the field – I refuse to become an authority figure (an INFJ trait).

This book came about because Woolf was writing reviews for the Times Literary Supplement and other periodicals, which means that to some extent she and I are engaged in the same pursuit. However, she would probably not have approved of how very personal I get.

Once again we have an essayist capable of using the essayist’s most proper but most dangerous and delicate tool. He has brought personality into literature, not unconsciously and impurely, but so consciously and purely that we do not know whether there is any relation between Max the essayist and Mr Beerbohm the man. We only know that the spirit of personality permeates every word that he writes. The triumph is the triumph of style. For it is only by knowing how to write that you can make use in literature of your self; that self which, while it is essential to literature, is also its most dangerous antagonist. Never to be yourself and yet always – that is the problem.

Woolf was still looking for essays that say something universal about the human condition. While there is some possibility of that in the way that I write, if people want universality from me they usually have to be able to extrapolate the message from my relation of my experience. I understand that my experience is unique to me, composed of the intersections of all my different identities, and while some experiences are common to certain groups of people, there’s no guarantee that I will have anything in common with another former academic/gay man/ex-Mormon/addictive personality/emotionally abused person.

Though Woolf keeps her experience away from her reviews, there are some qualities and preferences that become clear. A somewhat academic adherence to factual accuracy, as seen in her scathing review of a biography of Mary Russell Mitford, where she refers to the author as Mendacity (with a capital M). She also derides the author’s lack of passion for her subject:

What considerations, then, had weight with Miss Hill when she decided to write Mary Russell Mitford and her Surroundings? Three emerge from the rest, and may be held of paramount importance. In the first place, Miss Mitford was a lady; in the second, she was born in the year 1787; and in the third, the stock of female characters who lend themselves to biographic treatment by their own sex is, for one reason or another, running short. For instance, little is known of Sappho, and that little is not wholly to her credit. Lady Jane Grey has merit, but is undeniably obscure. Of George Sand, the more we know the less we approve. George Eliot was led into evil ways which not all her philosophy can excuse. The Brontës, however highly we rate their genius, lacked that indefinable something which marks the lady; Harriet Martineau was an atheist; Mrs Browning was a married woman; Jane Austen, Fanny Burney, and Maria Edgeworth have been done already; so that, what with one thing and another, Mary Russell Mitford is the only woman left.

I believe that the homophobia and slut-shaming and elitism in the above quotation are qualities that Woolf ascribes to Miss Hill, not attitudes that she herself embraced.

Woolf also had a good value for solitude, as when she describes Elizabethan drama:

But gradually it comes over us, what then are we being denied? What is it that we are coming to want so persistently, that unless we get it instantly we must seek elsewhere? It is solitude. There is no privacy here. Always the door opens and some one comes in. All is shared, made visible, audible, dramatic. Meanwhile, as if tired with company, the mind steals off to muse in solitude; to think, not to act; to comment, not to share; to explore its own darkness, not the bright-lit-up surfaces of others. It turns to Donne, to Montaigne, to Sir Thomas Browne, to the keepers of the keys of solitude.

Sir Thomas Browne, though unknown to me, is one of her heroes, like Max Beerbohm of the above quotation. This volume is arranged roughly chronologically, but there’s some fracturing and avoidance toward the end. We go from Chaucer to the Elizabethans and through the eighteenth century to Jane Austen, but then there’s an essay on modern fiction (compared unfavorably to the novels of the past) before she goes on to the Brontës, George Eliot, and the famous Russians (Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, of course, but there are others), but then she jumps back to the Romantic-Era Miss Mitford and a few other earlier writers before she gets on to talking about writing itself for a bit, and only ends with an evaluation of the writing current at the time. Of her contemporaries, Beerbohm gets some special attention:

But if we ask for masterpieces, where are we to look? A little poetry, we may feel sure, will survive; a few poems by Mr Yeats, by Mr Davies, by Mr de la Mare. Mr Lawrence, of course, has moments of greatness, but hours of something very different. Mr Beerbohm, in his way, is perfect, but it is not a big way. Passages in Far Away and Long Ago will undoubtedly go to posterity entire. Ulysses was a memorable catastrophe – immense in daring, terrific in disaster. And so, picking and choosing, we select now this, now that, hold it up for display, hear it defended or derided, and finally have to meet the objection that even so we are only agreeing with the critics that it is an age incapable of sustained effort, littered with fragments, and not seriously to be compared with the age that went before.

When it comes to the past, scholars are seldom entitled to publish their own opinions. No one wants to be the Victorianist who says that Dickens was nothing special. The monoliths of the past are monolithic in that we can’t disagree with them. Shakespeare was the greatest dramatist in the English language, but that’s because people decided he was a couple of hundred years ago, and few playwrights have even tried to compete. We don’t have different opinions on that now. When it comes to the present, the experts in the past can disagree and be extreme in their devotion or antipathy and it’s all right. The thing is, though, that even scholarly fads change. Walter Scott was once considered one of the most important early nineteenth-century poets who wrote some very influential historical novels, but now he’s largely ignored. Or at least he was when I was getting my degrees ten or fifteen years ago. The trend for the last forty years or so is to look away from the white men and recover works by women and minorities; after all, Byron felt seriously threatened by Mrs Hemans’s popularity, and the first American bestseller was a classic fallen-woman narrative written by a woman. Conrad is held at a distance because of his subhuman portrayal of Africans and Asians, even though in Woolf’s time he was beloved both by the masses and by the critics. And those writers considered obscure or nonacademic in Woolf’s time (evidenced by the fact that they’re included in this book), many are now canonical, like Austen, Brontë, and Eliot. This book focuses on biographies and volumes of letters, so those who only published letters or journals are not as easily embraced by academia. We like poetry and fiction, so this passage about journal-writing is itself a little dated:

Should you wish to make sure that your birthday will be celebrated three hundred years hence, your best course is undoubtedly to keep a diary. Only first be certain that you have the courage to lock your genius in a private book and the humour to gloat over a fame that will be yours only in the grave. For the good diarist writes either for himself alone or for a posterity so distant that it can safely hear every secret and justly weigh every motive. For such an audience there is need neither of affectation nor of restraint. Sincerity is what they ask, detail, and volume; skill with the pen comes in conveniently, but brilliance is not necessary; genius is a hindrance even; and should you know your business and do it manfully, posterity will let you off mixing with great men, reporting famous affairs, or having lain with the first ladies in the land.

Woolf seems most interested in those who refrain from these last three. She assumes her readers to have read the canonical works, and she introduces us to the less frequently taught.

Gently, beautifully, like the clouds of a balmy evening, obscurity once more traverses the sky, an obscurity which is not empty but thick with the star dust of innumerable lives.

Circling back, it’s not just that she’s writing for a general audience, showing them less-known literature, she’s also writing about the general audience. The essays in this volume tend to champion the lives of the not-so-great, the ordinary people who get passed by and whom few consider great. [Perspective: I once read a book that conducted a detailed scientific analysis of nineteenth-century prose styles, counting the ratio of words of dialogue to words of narration, the number of words per sentence, average number of adjectives per noun, that sort of thing. The author, Karl Kroeber, actually felt like he had to apologize for using Austen, C Brontë, and Eliot, because they were clearly inferior to Dickens, Thackeray, and Hardy. The analysis was interesting, he found that Mansfield Park is empirically the most boring Austen novel because it uses dramatically less dialogue and more narration than the others, but the patronizing misogyny was upsetting.] The message seems to be, obscurity does not imply triviality. It’s hard to find anything about me through a Google search, but my friends and family love me, and there are many ways in which my life matters, and has mattered to many different people.

And of course, my favorite essay about writing is here, “The Patron and the Crocus,” with my favorite quotation about writing,

To know whom to write for is to know how to write.

Here on this blog I have several dozen followers, but I don’t deceive myself about their actually reading what I write. There’s a small group of four or five people who read and comment occasionally, and those are the people I write this blog for. If other people read and enjoy it, great. Little bit of trivia: most people who find my blog through an internet search are trying to find out whether Hesse’s Demian is about a gay relationship or not.

It seems a bit odd to acknowledge to myself that even though my favorite book is Ragnarok and I went through four-year obsessions with As I Lay Dying and Mansfield Park, that this is the book that seems to have shaped me the most, the book whose philosophy vibrates in tune with my own heart, one of the most important books to me, even though I haven’t read most of the material she’s reviewing. I love Woolf’s novels, but I love her nonfiction even more – the way that her voice reaches out to me and holds me gently, the way she affirms much that I had already believed, the polite manner in which she sometimes disagrees with me, the way that I feel her to be speaking in my own mind, across the abyss of years, gender, and mental illness. When I read Woolf’s novels, I love her writing and her characters; when I read Woolf’s nonfiction, I love her.


I may not have to remind you that I am a mental illness hypochondriac. Reading a book with an autistic narrator may not have been the wisest move for me. I kept finding connections between his thought processes and my own, particularly when I was his age. The thing is, though, that if we follow current medical theory, we can talk about autism spectrum disorders; spectrum means that autism is more of a continuum than a toggle switch, and that means that we are all on it somewhere. Most people are grouped at one end that we call normal, and a few people are grouped at the other end that we call low-functioning autistic. Somewhere in between there’s a range that we call Asperger’s. These divisions are arbitrarily defined, and probably not very clearly defined. I really don’t know enough to say whether the idea of a continuum is even accurate; there may be more than one variable involved, which would take us from situating ourselves on a single line to finding our place on a plane, which is exponentially more complicated. So maybe I’m closer to the autistic side than most people, but that doesn’t mean that I have a disorder. It certainly doesn’t mean that if I ever talk to a doctor he’s going to prescribe medicine that I don’t want to take, so I probably don’t have to hide from all doctors ever. Though I do a pretty good job of that. As an example, I am not this extreme:

It takes me a long time to get used to people I do not know. For example, when there is a new member of staff at school I do not talk to them for weeks and weeks. I just watch them until I know that they are safe. Then I ask them questions about themselves, like whether they have pets and what is their favorite color and what do they know about the Apollo space missions and I get them to draw a plan of their house and I ask them what kind of car they drive, so I get to know them. Then I don’t mind if I am in the same room as them and don’t have to watch them all the time.

I don’t ask lots of questions, and it takes less than a few weeks of seeing someone every day for me to grow accustomed to them. But there are some people I feel instantly comfortable with, and some I don’t. I can tell how comfortable I am around someone by how often I look directly at him. If I’m uncomfortable, I will refuse to look at the person. Not consciously, it just sort of happens that way. Christopher’s narration is much more self-aware than I typically am; it’s only within the last few years that I’ve been trying to figure out why I do what I do and feel what I feel, and some of the answers I’ve come to in the last couple of months are epiphanies for me, and I’m twenty years older than the narrator of this book.

Christopher is a fifteen-year-old boy with autism who lives in Swindon. He’s writing a mystery story because the dog across the street got stabbed with a garden fork (which I imagine we have a different name for in the United States). The mystery is only the beginning of the book, though; halfway through the mystery is solved and we skew into a less-genre-specific, more generic journey/coming of age story. Christopher is being raised by his single working-class father, in a community that seems nice enough. Many Americans have a distorted perception of England because most of the media we get deals with the upper middle class or higher; it can be difficult for us to imagine rednecks with British accents, but they’re there. They just call them by names other than redneck.

Mr Jeavons said that I was a very clever boy.

I said that I wasn’t clever. I was just noticing how things were, and that wasn’t clever. That was just being observant. Being clever was when you looked at how things were and used the evidence to work out something new. Like the universe expanding, or who committed a murder. Or if you see someone’s name and you give each letter a value from 1 to 26 (a=1, b=2, etc) and you add the numbers up in your head and you find that it makes a prime number, like Jesus Christ (151), or Scooby-Doo (113), or Sherlock Holmes (163), or Doctor Watson (167).

Mr Jeavons asked me whether this made me feel safe, having things always in a nice order, and I said it did.

I play number games in my head too, but more often when I’m driving. Instead of multiplying as Christopher does, I factor. I’m very pleased with houses with numbers like 1326, because 26 is twice 13, which means that 1326 is a multiple of 102, so it’s 26 x 51, which is 2 x 13 x 3 x 17, or 34 x 39. If you asked me off the cuff what is 34 x 39, I wouldn’t be able to say. But I play the game anyway. It keeps my brain occupied, so I don’t have to think about all the other gleaming silver death machines trying to kill me. Or the red death machine that I drive, which may also be trying to kill me.

Another difference between me and Christopher is our relation to static. He embraces it; the white noise covers the things he doesn’t want to hear or can’t process. I don’t. When I get overstimulated (either through external things or strong emotions), I hear a buzzing in my head similar to static. It’s a sign to me that I need to get out of the situation and be alone to deal with things. It’s often associated with feelings of embarrassment or shame. For me, static means my brain isn’t working right.

A more significant difference, though, is our relation to the truth. Christopher can’t handle any sort of lie, including fiction. I escaped into fiction throughout my childhood (and adulthood too, if I’m honest), so it’s the life I’m accustomed to. I can hold multiple truth values in my head simultaneously and respond to people using the worldview that they themselves ascribe to. It’s convenient for getting along with different types of people, but it also keeps me from facing the question of what I really believe. And I’m not surprised when people lie to me, and sometimes I’m not even hurt by it. Like Mr Labor Day, who I’ve been thinking of again. He probably lied about nearly everything he told me because he didn’t want to start a committed relationship that night. The different things he said just don’t fit together. That being said, if I were to see him again, I’d still be interested in dating/fucking him, and I still hope that he’s happy, wherever he is.

A tendency that I see in myself (that I find alarming) is how quickly I will lie about things. It’s very strange, but I’ve been given to understand that it’s fairly typical of people from abusive homes, even after they become adults. If there’s someone I don’t want to get close to, I will lie inexplicably. I will refuse to give him accurate information about myself. It’s one of the ways I protect myself. I’ve tried to adjust this by being vague but still truthful, but sometimes the lies fly out before I can stop them. And the ways that I have lied to myself, all in the name of protecting the ego, well. It’d be startling if it weren’t such a common thing.

So when Christopher discovers the ways that he’s been lied to, because his father wants to protect him, he goes completely off the rails, as only an adolescent with autism can. As I certainly would not have. I would have simply classed this as yet another thing that we know deep down to be true but that we don’t talk about, like the fact that my cousin’s husband who just died a few months back was her second husband and not the biological father of her first child. Or the way that I figured out pretty early on that what we accept to be true at church and what beliefs we build our real lives upon are often different and contradictory.

Perhaps one of the most fundamental differences between me and Christopher is that he has complete faith in his ability to save and protect himself, which I have never had. Even when there’s clear evidence that I am an intelligent and capable person who can handle and survive any situation that he’s placed in, it’s hard for me to believe it. It’s part of the upbringing that I still haven’t overcome: the fundamental belief that terrible things are going to happen, both in the world in general and to me specifically, and there’s nothing I can do to prevent them. In the end, I think it’s likely that Christopher has ruined the lives of all the people around him in his quest for self-actualization, but he doesn’t feel it. All he sees is that he’s brave and strong and going to succeed in life.

And that’s another hugely significant difference: he can only interpret the most basic emotional cues. Anything more nuanced than a happy grin or a sad frown is lost on him. He even sometimes imagines that all the people who can interpret emotions are dead and the world is left to him and his severely autistic friends, whom he is certain must exist somewhere out there. I’m the opposite. I pick up on everything. A therapist friend once explained that it’s a defense mechanism of kids in abusive homes; we become hyper aware of other people’s emotional states because that’s how you keep from getting beaten. At least I’m learning to be better about understanding which emotions are mine and which are other people’s.

Sometimes I catch my brain asking myself, “Are you okay? Are you okay?” over and over. I tell myself that I am, even though a book like this can make me question that conclusion. I had started reading Foucault’s Madness and Civilization, but it might be wise to put that one down for a bit.


John Franklin Bardin wrote mystery novels in the 1940s and ’50s. If The Last of Philip Banter is any indication, he wrote very good mystery novels. One of the nice things about Banter is the way that Bardin breaks with tradition; the murder comes at the end instead of the beginning. The primary mystery is something quite different.

The first few pages feel like we’ve dropped in on Mad Men: Philip Banter is a womanizing alcoholic advertising executive in 1945. All the office girls are susceptible to his charms except his own secretary, Miss Grey, who is in love with Tom, a guy in a different department who wants Philip’s job. However, today, when Philip gets to his office, he finds a manuscript titled Confession that he himself seems to have signed. It recounts events that are meant to happen tonight. Philip is a little freaked by finding an apparently time-traveling confession, or a prediction written in the past tense, or whatever this thing is. He’s especially derailed by this because he’s been getting blackout drunk (and hearing voices) with increasing frequency, so he can’t actually remember what he did last night. He really could have written this thing himself.

That night, Philip and his wife Dorothy host their old friend Jeremy and his new girl Brent. The confession predicts this, but it represents him suavely seducing Brent, which in reality becomes a complete failure. Philip is probably thrown off a bit by having seen Dorothy and Jeremy making out; he can philander all he wants, but this is her first minor infidelity, and he’s really uncomfortable with the idea that she could treat him the way that he treats her.

On Day Two there’s another installment of the confession, predicting Dorothy breaking up with Philip over lunch. So of course he doesn’t meet her. She does run off with Jeremy for a little bit, but it’s unsatisfactory for both of them.

It was very inappropriate, too, they both realized, for what they were doing in actuality was endeavoring to escape the cage of the present by admiring and reconstructing the bars that had made the cages of the past.

Even though they had both spent the entire length of Dorothy’s marriage to Philip wondering what would have happened if she had married Jeremy instead, that moment has passed. They’re in love with other people now, and not even running off together for averagely-good sex can help them live up to/live out their what-if fantasies.

The detective in all this is a psychiatrist friend of Philip’s. He doesn’t figure out what’s going on until after someone dies, and he never figures out the creepily Oedipal thing going on with Dorothy and her father, but at least he admits

Even psychiatrists sometimes make mistakes.

which is an impressive confession for a fictonal psychiatrist, I think. I don’t know enough of the real ones to say whether they fit the I-am-the-voice-of-God stereotype.

The psychiatrist gives the author the opportunity to talk explicitly about the main emotional drive of the novel: inadequacy. As in his conversation with Philip:

The young boy who has never experienced sex and the old man who doubts that he will ever experience it again share common feelings of guilt and inadequacy. They both spend an inordinate amount of time daydreaming about exploits they don’t have the courage or opportunity to make real. Sometimes this happens to a man in his maturity, and then his fears are often false. They are only symptomatic of a deeper wound, a hidden conflict. Some men never get over adolescent feelings of inadequacy and guilt, and with such men, every time they have a new relation it is a fresh trial of their ever-doubted prowess – you might call them sexual athletes since they are always trying to break their own records. These men often become psychically impotent prematurely. They day-dream compulsively – you do it on paper! – about imagined triumphs and then force themselves to make them real.

I don’t know if I feel guilt exactly, but I spend most of my life convinced of my own inadequacy. Being a teacher tends to feed these feelings. No matter what I do, my students are never going to speak or write perfectly. Teaching is like seeing a leak in a dam that prevents your hometown from flooding. You stick your finger in the hole. Then there’s another one, so you stick another finger there. If the leaks are close enough, you may be able to reach a third. Then you look around and realize that all your neighbors are sticking their fingers in leaks too. We know that someone needs to repave the dam, and sometimes we get very angry about that. But we just keep sticking fingers in the holes and wait for someone else to fix the systemic problems. There’s never any question of success; we just try to fail the least. Most of the time I think I’m good at what I do, but I’m never free of the uncertainty. Educational supervisors tend to work on the assumption that if nothing’s wrong, they don’t need to say anything, so in most teaching situations I’ve tended to feel isolated and underappreciated. The job where I have felt the best about my work was at The Home Depot. I worked in freight, so there was some paperwork in receiving and some forklift operating and a lot of taking things out of boxes and putting them on shelves; it satisfied the same need for order that tempts me toward library work. But my supervisor worked with me for a night every few weeks, and he always told me I did a good job, and every night he thanked the entire team for the work we did. I know that many people (like Deborah Tannen) say that women are better at giving praise, but in my workplaces I’ve found that not to be the case.

OccMan, you’re drifting. Bardin wasn’t writing about professional inadequacy; it’s pretty clear that he meant sexual inadequacy. Yes that’s true, but I don’t believe the two are so easily separable. Those people who have a proven record of romantic success tend to have the confidence and ambition necessary to succeed professionally; they’re used to a world that says Yes to them, so they go after everything they want in whichever area of life that might be. That’s why so few ugly people become rich. Then there are people like me, who have been taught their whole lives that they can’t have anything worth having, so it’s hard for me to try hard to get either a good job or a good boyfriend, because deep down I don’t think I deserve one or the other. Failure in one area of life leads to failure in the others because I feel Failure like a label printed on my skin.

Philip Banter is a good representative of this idea. He’s married to a woman he cares about, but has a number of one-night stands on the side. It looks like he has success, but he’s a shit husband, and he sees the hookups as failures rather than conquests. He’s looking for a feeling of strength, power, desirableness, puissance, but he only ends up feeling guilty, so he drinks until he can’t remember, his hands start shaking, and he has periodic blackouts. His job is similar: he has a great job as an ad writer, but he doesn’t put in the work to be good at it. He writes terrible repetitive copy, losing client after client, until his boss/father-in-law fires him and tells his wife to divorce him. There are a number of episodes of the Twilight Zone that fit this schema as well (including all of those featuring bachelors who fail at business).

One of the striking things about this novel is the structure. I don’t mean that it’s divided into three installments, one for each section of the predictive confession (which are also days); I mean the precise moment that the last chapter ends and the epilogue begins. You’re familiar with the final scene from Dashiell Hammett pictures: Nick Charles or Sam Spade gathers all the suspects and victims into one room, goes on explaining how each of them could have done it, dismissing each suspect in turn until someone does something stupid, like confessing. In the last chapter, Philip has everyone gathered in like fashion, he starts his detective monologue, but then he gets interrupted, he runs out, and someone kills him (not a spoiler; read the title again). The book proper ends with Philip’s death, and the audience still doesn’t know who the killer is. While most detective novels are about the successful search for the truth, Banter reminds us how inadequate we are to discover it. Even the psychiatrist can’t figure it out in time to save his friend’s life. Nothing gets wrapped up until the epilogue, when we have to repeat the detective monologue scene, getting it a little more right this time. Bardin hits us with it again in the last line of the book:

But there was nothing he could do about that . . .

Ending on the ellipsis, as if even the writer, who stands in the place of God, can’t bring about a satisfactory conclusion. There’s nothing the characters can do to right some of the wrongs of the world. Lives have been ended, others destroyed, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. In the end, in some way, we are all inadequate.