When
I’m reading a book, I generally have quite a clear idea of what I like and don’t
like about it. However, I must admit Elizabeth
Lowry’s Dark Water flummoxed me. It was
a novel I lapped up, a real literary page-turner. Yet, throughout, I had this
nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite convincing me. Perhaps, by the end of this review, I’ll
manage to sort my thoughts out.
The marketing blurbs describe Dark Water as a Gothic
novel, whilst comparing it to “Moby Dick” or “Heart of Darkness”. That is, I think, a good place to start. I must say that I was also reminded of the “sea
stories” of William Hope Hodgson. Admittedly,
no phantom pirates haunt these pages but there are other terrors aplenty...ooh,
yes, there are! And there’s the same
sense of claustrophobia which, ironically, can clutch travellers on the open
sea and which both Hodgson and Lowry portray so effectively. Lovers of opera will also catch more than a
briny whiff of Britten’s marine masterpieces “Billy Budd” or “Peter Grimes”:
the latter, especially, in the final part of the novel.
Dark Water, however, also references what I would call
the “asylum Gothic”, made popular in Victorian ‘sensation fiction’ and reprised
in contemporary novels (Alison Littlewood’s recent The Crow Garden comes to
mind).
The link between these two Gothic environments lies in
the main characters. In the first half of the 19th Century, as a newly-qualified
physician, narrator Hiram Carver joins the crew of the USS Orbis for a journey
from Boston south towards Cape Horn. Aboard
ship he befriends William Borden. Though
barely older than Hiram, Borden already has a reputation in the seafaring world
as the “Hero of the Providence”. Years
before, aboard the said ship, Borden negotiated with a group of mutineers for
the life of the Captain and a group of sailors, and then led them to safety across
the Pacific aboard a fragile dinghy. He’s
a living legend, no less. Yet, something
seems to trouble the man, and a violent episode on the Orbis threatens to bring
his career to a premature end.
Back on the terra ferma, Hiram puts his marine
adventure behind him and takes up a position at Boston’s Asylum for the Insane. And so, he tells us,
I began to exist on intimate
terms with all that is pitiful, misshapen, and unresolved in the human heart
At the asylum, he meets
Borden again, this time as a patient. For
the sake of their previous friendship, Carver is determined to cure Borden,
using a new technique which he has developed, at odds with traditional, less
humane, approaches. Carver, in fact,
believes that psychological illnesses can be addressed by confronting head-on submerged
memories - unwelcome recollections which we tend to bury in our mental “dark
water” or, in other words, the “subconscious”. But memory and truth are uncomfortable
bedfellows and perhaps, raking up the past is not always a great idea.
Lowry exploits the Gothic
possibilities of the plot and, for good measure, provides the reader with some
impressive set-pieces which further emphasize the novel’s association with the
genre. There is a particularly striking episode
in which Carver visits a maimed cousin who lives in a dark mansion,
So exactly like a house of nightmare: a crooked mausoleum
hidden away in a waste land of struggling trees, marooned on scant acres of
blasted grass.
The meeting takes place in
a room with drawn curtains, where the host quaffs absinthe in a bid for oblivion.
There are other memorable scenes set
against the wintry backdrop of the bleak Nantucket coastline.
In other words, this is
all so very much up my alley. So why my
reservations? I guess part of my problem
lies with the character of the narrator.
He first struck me as an interesting and complex figure, especially in
his relationships with the rest of the crew and –on land – with his overbearing
father and doting sister. However, as
the novel proceeds, so many contradictions surface that, for me at least, he
did not remain particularly convincing. He
is often weak but, when required, breathtakingly ruthless. He can be patient with
his patients, yet brusque and callous with the people closest to him. He is
sometimes indolent, sometimes overbearingly ambitious. He can be perceptive and sharp, yet
incredibly naive. He’s conflicted about
his sexuality. As a psychological study,
he’s just too good to be true.
And then there’s
Borden. He’s described as a sort of
demigod, a supernatural figure. Now I do
appreciate that we’re perceiving Borden from Carver’s perspective, but the “elevated”
language in which he’s consistently presented becomes rather over the top.
And this brings me
precisely to the distinctive aspect of Dark Water which, I suspect, will also
be its most divisive one. Throughout the
book, there are several extended metaphors which invite a symbolic or mythical
interpretation of the novel. There are,
of course, the pervasive ‘marine’ metaphors, not least the evocative image of
the “dark water” of our minds. But there
are also recurring references to “food”, “hunger”, “thinness” and “leanness”. Hiram’s superior at the asylum nicknames him
Cassius because, like the eponymous character in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar,
he has a “lean and hungry look”. Hunger, or the lack of it, is often indicative
of a character’s state of mind.
From there it’s but a
brief step to imagery of a religious, theological, dare I say ‘sacramental’
nature. Suffice it to mention, without
revealing too much, that certain key episodes in the plot are imbued with
ritualistic significance, although it’s not clear whether Lowry’s intention is
merely to harness the power of religious associations or to present us with a
grotesque parody of holy ceremonies. For
me, “Dark Water” worked brilliantly enough as a dark historical novel with
psychological undercurrents. This ‘mythical’
element was hardly necessary. But I’m
just as sure that others will find that it is precisely this added layer of
meaning which gives this novel the edge over other neo-Victorian novels. Anyone
with even a passing interest in the Gothic should read this.
"Dark Water" is out on riverrun on the 6th September, 2018
***
The sea has inspired much
great music. I’m tempted to build a
playlist to go with this book but, in the meantime, here are some works to get
one in the mood. Ralph Vaughan Williams’s
Walt Whitman setting (from his first symphony) portrays a beach at night. Benjamin Britten’s “Four Sea Interludes” from the
opera Peter Grimes portray some of the many moods of the sea. And there’s a sea-shanty for good
measure. Enjoy!
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