Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [244]
“Yes,” said the author, nodding eagerly. “Yes, that’s right.” Lanark gaped down at the foolishly nodding face and suddenly felt it belonged to a horrible ventriloquist’s doll. He raised a clenched fist but could not bring himself to strike. He swung round and punched a painting on an easel and both clattered to the floor. He pushed down the other painting beside the door, went to a tall bookcase in a corner and heaved it over. Books cascaded from the upper shelves and it hit the floor with a crash which shook the room. There were long low shelves around the walls holding books, folders, bottles and tubes of paint. With sweeps of his arm he shoved these to the floor, then turned, breathing deeply, and stared at the bed. The author sat there looking distressed, but the paintings and easels were back in their old places, and glancing around Lanark saw the bookcases had returned quietly to the corner and books, folders, bottles and paint were on the shelves again.
“A conjuror!” said Lanark with loathing. “A damned conjuror!”
“Yes,” said the conjuror humbly, “I’m sorry. Please sit down and let me explain why the story has to go like this. You can eat while I talk (I’m sure you’re hungry) and afterward you can tell me how you think I could be better. Please sit down.” The bedside chair was small but comfortably upholstered. A table had appeared beside it with covered dishes on a tray. Lanark felt more exhausted than hungry, but after sitting for a while he removed a cover out of curiosity. There was a bowl beneath of dark red oxtail soup, so taking a spoon he began to eat.
“I will start,” said the conjuror, “by explaining the physics of the world you live in. Everything you have experienced and are experiencing, from your first glimpse of the Elite café to the metal of that spoon in your fingers, the taste of the soup in your mouth, is made of one thing.”
“Atoms,” said Lanark.
“No. Print. Some worlds are made of atoms but yours is made of tiny marks4 marching in neat lines, like armies of insects, across pages and pages and pages of white paper. I say these lines are marching, but that is a metaphor. They are perfectly still. They are lifeless. How can they reproduce the movement and noises of the battle of Borodino, the white whale ramming the ship, the fallen angels on the flaming lake?”
“By being read,” said Lanark impatiently.
“Exactly. Your survival as a character and mine as an author depend on us seducing a living soul into our printed world and trapping it here long enough for us to steal the imaginative energy which gives us life. To cast a spell over this stranger I am doing abominable things. I am prostituting my most sacred memories into the commonest possible words and sentences. When I need more striking sentences or ideas I steal them from other writers, usually twisting them to blend with my own. Worst of all I am using the great world given at birth—the world of atoms—as a ragbag of shapes and colours to make this second-hand entertainment look more amusing.”
“You seem to be complaining,” said Lanark. “I don’t know why. Nobody is forcing you to work with print, and all work involves some degradation. I want to know why your readers in their world should be entertained by the sight of me failing to do any good in mine.” “Because failures are popular. Frankly, Lanark, you are too stolid and commonplace to be entertaining as a successful man. But don’t be offended; most heroes end up like you. Consider the Greek book about Troy. To repair a marriage broken by adultery, a civilization spends ten years smashing another one. The heroes on both sides know the quarrel is futile, but they Continue it because they think willingness to die in a fight is proof of human greatness. There is no suggestion that the war does anything