Nicolas Rothwell’s Belomor: A New Genre
Silke Hesse
Monash University
When we think of
the novel today we rarely remember that it was once a hybrid form,
experimentally composed of the immediacy of drama with its heroes, its dialogue
exchanges and its climactic ending, of the epic with its love of captivating an
audience by pursuing a story through all its endless detail, of the letter with
its personal narrator in conversation with her reader, of the sensational news
story and, among many other influences, of the landscape and portrait paintings
of art and poetry. It is precisely the tensions between these forms and a
writer’s freedom to combine them ever differently in the interests of his own
vision of life that have given the novel its strength and longevity. But in
spite of this inbuilt flexibility, the genre has come to have a world view of
its own. This is based on the importance of causality in human lives, the
finality of endings, be they happy or tragic, and the defined uniqueness of
active individual characters who are accepted as having their deserved
hierarchy in our affections. Such a literary form does not do justice to
everyone’s experience. Worse, where it dominates, it can impose its tyrannical
schema on the everyday life of a society. We should therefore welcome any
attempt at a new genre that can help us to see life in a different way.
I believe that
Nicolas Rothwell’s book Belomor, which has just been released,
is such an attempt at a new genre. Reviewers have commented on its
unconventional hybrid composition, its proximity to the dread pretentiousness,
and its uncertain location between fact and fiction. But it is also seen, as
the book’s cover quoting Delia Falconer tells us, to be a work of great
fascination: “Melancholy, singular, exhilerating, Belomor reads like a haunted history of the world.” And there are other critics of note whose
admiring comments readers are encouraged to notice even before they have
reached the title page: Pico Iyer, Robert Dessaix, Peter Craven. On the back
cover, however, it becomes obvious that the publisher, Text, felt the need to reassure readers that what they would be buying was just a further variation
of the familiar novel and its multi-stranded plot: “Four chapters: four
journeys through life, separate, yet interwoven as the narrative unfolds”.
It is my
intention here to question the assumption that Belomor is nothing more than an eccentric novel, a novel gone awry,
and to have a close look at what Rothwell has actually done in this book. I
believe that his conscious or unconscious design was to create a new
large-scale (novel length), theme-based rather than plot-based narrative genre
that assembled itself around the insights of sensitive, intuitive, articulate
and emotional people, rather than following the activities or destinies of
characters, or protagonists, or heroes. In Rothwell’s book, causality is
replaced by affinity and time has lost its structural integrity and become just
one of several interrelated recurring themes.
Rothwell’s
novel-length narrative essay, to give it a name is, like the novel, a realistic
genre. All the same, no visible distinction is made between invented persons
with their imagined reality and real-life persons whose biographical details
can be checked and verified but whose minds and emotions need perhaps just as
much imaginative internalization on the part of the author. And mingling with
these live people are characters from history, like Aby Warburg and Winckelmann,
whose writings along with learned biographies and commentaries by their
admirers give access to their mental worlds. People, we will discover in
Rothwell’s book, thrive on the life experiences of others. Therefore nothing of
value that men have spoken about, recorded or created deserves to disappear; we
must hope that at least fragments of it will remain in the treasure-house of
humanity, in spite of the terrible cycles of destruction constantly sweeping
over the historical world. People and their lives are at the very heart of
Rothwell’s book; the narrator will add those he has encountered to the human
heritage. There is here no difference between the dead and the living, the
invented and the remembered. And while each of the live persons in Rothwell’s
stories has his own distinctive voice and his own turn of phrase, there is also
a vocabulary and rhythm common to them all, to a degree that they sometimes
seem to blend as though they were one, as though the human family ultimately
had just a single being.
The four-part
structure of Rothwell’s narrative essay is musical, not dramatic. Each of these
“movements” is quite distinct and has its own function within the work; but the
themes and motifs that bind them together resonate through all four. And as in
music, what matters in this book is emotion with its rhythm and timbre and
pitch. Moreover, Rothwell’s language has the precision and sonorous beauty of classical music.
The book has a
narrator but he is a shadowy presence; for those that know something of Nicolas
Rothwell the journalist, the narrator’s assignments and travels echo those of
the author. But this story-telling needs no biographical authentification; the
narrator remains in the background. He is, in this book, neither an inventor
nor a producer nor a commentator nor a judge but a collector and re-arranger of
the scattered fragments of life he happens to have stumbled across. The
fragments are always of people’s lived experiences and they seem to become
richer and more evocative as they are singled out and picked up after each
shattering.
The first of the
four sections or movements, entitled “Belomorkanal”, functions like an
introductory poetics, setting out the parameters for the whole. It is prefaced
by a description of the journey of the Venetian artist Bernardo Bellotto to
Dresden on the Elbe in 1747. He has been summoned to paint the city with its
spectacular churches and palaces for the
King of Poland and Elector of Saxony, the
son of August the Strong who had commissioned them. Bellotto works
meticulously, only too aware of the destructive cycles of history and the
potential fragility of all works of architectural beauty. And it is then not
long before he can paint the first ruin, the Kreuzkirche, a casualty of war
with Prussia. After the total destruction of Dresden at the end of WWII, and
after forty years of the GDR during which Dresden’s ruins came to embody and
memorialize the worst horrors of war, it was Bellotto’s paintings that allowed
an accurate reconstruction of the city, now as a monument to peace. What is
noteworthy is that in spite of its stone by stone authenticity, a somewhat too
facile attempt to turn back time, the newly reassembled old city is now both
more and less than it was when it represented the glory of a proud tyrant.
Like Bellotto’s
cityscapes, art again and again preserves the memory of what is of value to
mankind, allowing this to be recycled and enter the living world once again as
something new in a new context. And what applies to European art applies to
Aboriginal art too. The paintings of the elders record fading memories both of
tribal lore and frontier massacre but in a manner so cryptic that most of their
white viewers will become aware of little more than the beauty that touches and
enriches their own lives. Here the gap between creation and reception is
perhaps greatest.
There are
celebrated and famous works of art like Dresden’s Sistine Madonna by Raphael
which epitomizes the moment when “ideas and thoughts vanish and feelings stay”.
People from the far reaches of Russia swarm to see this painting because “she
speaks to us [...] she fills up our thoughts”. But there are also almost
unknown works like the notebook of a one-time convict in a Russian Gulag who
described the people he encountered there and then his own moment of insightful
love of all living things. And privileged to read this text years later, his
student, who had himself experienced the terrible bombing of Dresden as a
child, is inspired to make a pilgrimage to that other place of horror, the
former prison camp on the island of Solovki in the Arctic Sea. On his last day in
the north he has a vision of “the whiteness behind the world [...] the void at
the core of things”. This image of whiteness will recur throughout the book in
different forms. The former student, now Professor Stefan Haffner, then passes
his memories on to the young narrator of our book, who will work with them in
his own way.
Meaning and
permanence, it seems, exist only in this exchange, this passing down and
reconceiving of human experiences through the ages. If there is an ethic embedded
in Rothwell’s book, it is never to let the emotional experiences and insights
gained by the individual people we happen to come across fall into oblivion,
but to take them up and pass them on. And perhaps also: if we know of someone
like Armin, whose life was cut short, to do our best to understand and perhaps fulfill
his unfinished quest.
The saddest story
in Rothwell’s book is no doubt that of the Dresden professor. His experiences
and insights, generously shared, would become crucial for the narrator who
could not guess that this dissident’s contact with a western journalist had
brought the Stasi upon him. And it would seem that they forced him to
compromises that destroyed his faith in himself and his own insights as well as
all generosity towards his fellow humans. Had he not earlier passed his and his
teacher’s insights on, they would have been lost for ever.
It seems obvious
that the novel-genre is not a medium that can do justice to a philosophy of
life in which individuals with their uniqueness and their achievements matter
little, in which death is not an unexpected tragedy or triumph but a ubiquitous
disaster, in which intuitions matter more than will power, stories of feelings
and insights more than actions, in which causality is irrelevant, and in which
the narrator is above all a collector and recycler of subtle, undramatic
stories that have no real endings. The rambling, musical, discursive,
theme-based genre Rothwell has created allows such a Weltanschauung to come into its own and if we do not notice and
acknowledge this, we are as likely as not to be irritably frustrated with
supposed shortcomings and consequently to close our minds to what this book is
actually saying.
Section two of
Rothwell’s narrative introduces us in the main to two people, the art historian
Aby Warburg and the young wildlife photographer Deion Palomor, with Warburg’s
strange and disturbing story, often eloquently told in his own words,
bracketing the meanderings and quiet dying of the luminously lovely Palomor, whose name is both suggestive of the
title of Rothwell’s book “Belomor” and of the word “paramour”. In the central
part of the composition, we are then introduced in quick succession to similar
people – they initially happen to be gathered at an exhibition opening – often bushmen
living in the Northern Territory, most working with Aboriginal people and
interested, each in his own way, in ethnology, art and nature. Aesthetically
and intellectually they function as variations on a theme and serve to
highlight the concerns of this section as embodied in the main actors. Both
Warburg and Palomor are in search of nature as the source of truth, Warburg
among the Pueblo Indians and the fertility rituals of their snake cult, Palomor
with the snakes of Northern Australia, wild creatures with whom he has a
special affinity, savoring, almost worshipping, their “very gentle presence”.
Unlike the narrator, whose voice is here heard momentarily, they both seek a
merging with the natural world “man’s will to leave his own awareness, to
change himself into the form of animals” that by-passes symbol, and language,
and representation, and art and ultimately leads either to madness through the
unprotected exposure to messages and intuitions, or to inadvertent death. The
Aboriginal people, for their part, know that the creatures of nature are
totemic symbols, messengers, complex representations and embodiments of a
meaning that is too awesome and secret to be spoken of publicly. For the
narrator, in turn, nature “was a place where what lay beneath the surface was
ever present, and all the tension of the landscape was hidden from the eye. A
place of secrets and reticence: where one would seek, rather than knowing, and
be fearful of what was there to be found.”
Section three
tells us the story of Tony Oliver, an artist with “a belief in art’s redemptive
force and a longing to make visible the masked structure of the world.” Oliver
starts off in the art world of Melbourne but a meeting with the Aboriginal
painter Freddie Timms sends him on a journey, first to Wollongong where he
attempts to gain a grasp of the uniqueness of the Australian landscape, then to
the Kimberley where elders introduce him to their understanding of the world
and their attempts to preserve memories and mysteries, secreted under the
aesthetic surface of paintings. There Oliver first builds up the Jirrawun art
centre at Kununurra, which is “at the shining summit” when the narrator pays
his first visit there. Surprisingly, the flamboyant Oliver seems quite distraught
on that day, claiming to be contemplating suicide, not because “something bad
has happened” but because he sees the “success that implies disaster”. “People
die, dreams fail, plans break, grief descends, the white man leaves, things
fall to pieces; until there’s nothing left. What we’ve built is like a fragile
castle, waiting for the whirlwind to sweep past.” And the musical pattern of
this section follows this manic-depressive rhythm throughout, the emotional
roller-coaster between enormous enthusiasm and achievement and the let-down
that follows when “what seems revolutionary always turns out to be conformist”
and “the dream that beauty can save the world” proves to be vacuous. Oliver
goes on to build the ideal art centre at Wyndham but this too is not immune to
death and change. He ends up in Vietnam, married and with a fine house of his
own, employed as cultural advisor to the government, and painting nothing more
than the differing light over the sea each hour of the day. “That’s what I’ve
come to believe in. This life, here; not life after death, not salvation far
ahead, but life itself: what we live now.” The third section or movement of Belomor thus has the sonorous resolution
of a Beethoven composition. But it is a resolution conceived far away, in an
Eastern country.
In movement
four, the last section of Rothwell’s narrative essay, which serves also as its
summing up, the narrator, with his personal quest and intuitions, finally, at
least momentarily, gains a force of his
own and the two poles of Rothwell’s dual heritage, the central European and the
northern Australian come into direct contact. Structurally, it is the most
complex of the sections. It begins with a night encounter and conversation the
narrator has with a German film-maker from the former GDR. She and her friends
had been literature students in that oppressive, unreal party state. “We relied
on art, then, for lessons, and clues: how to exist, how to be true to oneself.”
Then the wall fell: “Suddenly, there was wild, rich, technicolour life around
us, and all its frictions and its forces to bear.” Unlike many of her friends,
she finds a path for herself. She travels. In the Australian desert she has a
decisive experience of “freedom – total freedom”. When the narrator meets her
she is just telling others of her visit to Seagull Island where the swell from
the Indian Ocean and the currents from eastern waters meet and “you could walk
between those drifting curtains [...] your shadow seemed to be beside you, on
your left and on your right at once” so that you “felt as if some revelation
was very close by”. In the wake of such experiences she has come to understand
that there is no limit to man’s potential and she will “make films that
explore, not fix; hide from rigid plot, and fact and form: they’re death to me.
Death – like everything set and still.” In this she resembles the narrator. She
is saddened by the fact that many of her fellow students were maimed by their
past, in particular her friend Armin, perhaps the most gifted of them, whose
quest for a hybrid art form ended in suicide. The narrator reminds her of him,
she says, and she challenges him to search for the strands of Armin’s
unfinished life.
The narrator has
an opportunity to do this when an assignment takes him back to eastern Germany
and the little town of Stendal where Armin had last worked. There a rainstorm drives
him to seek shelter with enthusiasts from the Winckelmann Association,
commemorating “the founder of classical archeology”. Winckelmann had dealt with
his homoerotic frustrations through the worship of ancient classical sculpture
always in search of the perfect body, art of which sadly only fragments, or
copies and castes, had survived.
Later, in
Halberstadt, the narrator stumbles into people assembled to witness a change of
note in the Millennium Composition by John Cage with its drastic slowing down
of time, a short piece that will take 639 years to perform, “so that you can
truly grasp how sweet and precious each second in its passing is”. And there he
also encounters the now broken and fugitive Professor Haffner, the man who had once
had a determining influence on his life. Asked by the Professor what it was
that so impressed him those many years ago, the narrator says: “The way you saw
the world lying in fragments – everything lost, and wrecked, and scattered; and
the task of life was in collecting up those fragments, looking, seeking for the
resonances and echoes – the shards – you said what was left to us has been
exploded, pulverized, reduced to rubble; no more order, nothing, no more
structure and harmony, no sequence – and the hardest thing’s to find words that
fit together, that hold any truth at all.” But Haffner has changed. He now retorts:
“‘The game never ends: it doesn’t balance up. Lives don’t have shapes. There
aren’t grand encounters when everything comes into focus – or do you think this
might be one?’” “Of course,” the
narrator says sadly. But Haffner can not be won over. He turns away: “You took
my knowledge. You took my stories. Now leave me: leave me be.”
Section four of
Rothwell’s narrative essay then ends in Australia where the narrator meets up
with an acquaintance, a somewhat shady dealer in Aboriginal art, whose purchase
of a carved statuette has destroyed the Elder and Law Man who had been his
teacher and friend, along with the world of magic he represented, leaving
nothing more than a beautiful carved object. Nevertheless, the generosity of this
betrayed friend allows one last strange encounter and that has a consoling
message: “The time has come: it has to be. I must leave you. But you won’t be
alone, I’ll still be with you – don’t you remember how I used to tell you:
those who go are always still with us, if we have the eyes to see them.” Our
saving grace, and that is at the heart of Rothwell’s message, is that we do
have access to fragments of the past and also guidance in assembling them anew.
Where does
Rothwell’s book leave us? It is hard to contest that world history, not only
that of the twentieth century, has been characterized by massacre and willful
destruction on a monstrous scale. In the twenty-first century, the mechanisms
promoting such disasters may no longer be religions and ideologies, both now
widely discredited and discarded, but man-made climate change: nature unhinged
to let loose its fury on man and his world. There will, most likely, be extreme
weather events (the taxing weather plays a considerable role in Rothwell’s book
too) that bring about large-scale loss of life; there will be increasing
numbers of environmental refugees seeking safer land that its owners will not
be willing to share; and there will be frantic competition for diminishing
resources of all kinds. It is hard to imagine a century of peace lying ahead of
us. As the motto from Propertius, “Vidi ego odorati...”, a hidden message that
introduces Rothwell’s book, tells us: “I have seen with my own eyes the newly
opened roses of fragrant Paestum, dried up by the South Wind at the end of the
morning.” Things wither before their time. All man’s life seems enveloped in
the heat and smoke of destruction; we create it ourselves, breathe it in and
breathe it out, and more, we even use it as a stimulant and drug. To symbolize
the smoke of the world – a smoke signal for us if we want to see it that way –
each of the four sections of the book is named after a variety of cigarettes or
tobacco: Belomorkanal, Muratti Ambassador, Winfield Blue and Mingkurlpa, the
native tobacco.
We will need to
cope with our lives in the midst of all this destruction, as people have always
needed to cope. Rothwell’s narrative essay suggests that there will again be
believers and non-believers. The believers will be spurred by love of the world
and their fellow human beings, those wonderfully varied and yet transient
creatures, and by their own guiding intuitions. Their lives will continue to be
meaningful and beautiful, no matter what mayhem surrounds them. Faith is a
grace that has always been available to humans. And in this new age of a faith
without churches and dogmas, art in all its forms – literature, painting, film, architecture,
music – will provide the inspiration and the foundation, an art made of shards,
perhaps, but nevertheless an art that can shine a light on our path. The genre
of the narrative essay, which Rothwell has chosen, does not promote dramatic
action as does the novel, action that so often leads to disaster, but rather a
quiet, imaginative, appreciative attentiveness to the people we encounter in
real life or in literature, their insights and artistic endeavors, and their
relationship to the natural and human worlds that surround them.
Belomor is dedicated to
the memory of an Aboriginal Elder, Tjinawima Napaltjarri, who has passed on but
from whose guidance we may still hope to benefit, as the author himself
presumably did.
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