Guilty E-Book

Anna Kavan

• Herausgeber: Peter Owen Publishers
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Peter Owen Publishers are proud to announce the publication of a previously unpublished novel.Set in an unspecified but eerily familiar time and landscape, Guilty is narrated by Mark. He begins the novel as a young boy whose father has just returned from war. In spite of being garlanded as a hero, Mark's father declares himself a pacifist and is immediately reviled in a country still suffering from the divisions of war. When his father is forced into exile Mark meets Mr Spector, a shady figure who from then on is a dominant force in Mark's life, seeing him through his schooling, employment and even finding him accommodation. When Mark tries to break off with Mr Spector in order to pursue an engagement with the beautiful but docile Carla his life begins to unravel. Thwarted at every turn by a Kafkaesque bureaucracy he begins to fall prey to the machinations and insecurities of his guilt-ridden mind.

Leseprobe

‘[Guilty is] thrillingly unclassifiable.’ – Guardian

‘A week after finishing Guilty, I’m still haunted. Kavan’s art is breathtaking – why is there no South Bank Show on this genius drug-fiend?’ – Duncan Fallowell, Financial Times

‘Kavan’s dreamscapes recall the hidden gardens of T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets … her writing, so wild and emotionally fraught, represents a rare form of inner resilience.’ – Times Literary Supplement

‘She is mentioned with Virginia Woolf and Jean Rhys; “like Dostoyevsky”, they might have said … But she has her own original voice in one startling novel after another … She is being recognised as the most distinctive of 20th-century novelists.’ – Doris Lessing, Independent

‘Anna Kavan lived in possession of sufficient imaginative fuel to lift a Boeing. In Guilty, her debt to Kafka, as the prototypical existential type, as well as her characteristic leaning towards apocalyptic vision, find a powerful fusion of opposites in a novel poised on the exhilirating forward edge of the present.’ – Jeremy Reed, author of A Stranger on Earth:The Life and Work of Anna Kavan

Guilty

Set in an unspecified but eerily familiar landscape, Guilty is told from the point of view of a young man named Mark. The novel begins in his childhood as his father returns from war. In spite of being garlanded as a hero, Mark’s father declares himself a pacifist and is immediately reviled in a country still suffering from wartime divisions. When he is forced into exile Mark meets Mr Spector, a mysterious figure who becomes a dominant force in his life, overseeing his schooling, his employment and even his accommodation. When he tries to break away from Mr Spector to pursue an engagement with the beautiful Carla, Mark’s life begins to unravel. Thwarted at every turn by a Kafakaesque bureaucracy, he falls prey to the machinations and insecurities of his guilt-ridden mind.

Drawing on many of Anna Kavan’s familiar themes, Guilty will be welcomed by those who already know and appreciate her work and a revelation to those who don’t.

ANNA KAVAN, née Helen Woods, was born in Cannes in 1901 and spent her childhood in Europe, the USA and Great Britain. Her life was haunted by her rich, glamorous mother, beside whom her father remains an indistinct figure. Twice married and divorced, she began writing while living with her first husband in Burma and was initially published under her married name of Helen Ferguson. Her early writing consisted of somewhat eccentric ‘Home Counties’ novels, but everything changed after her second marriage collapsed. In the wake of this, she suffered the first of many nervous breakdowns and was confined to a clinic in Switzerland. She emerged from her incarceration with a new name – Anna Kavan, the protagonist of her 1930 novel Let Me Alone – an outwardly different persona and a new literary style. She suffered periodic bouts of mental illness and long-term drug addiction – she had become addicted to heroin in the 1920s and continued to use it throughout her life – and these facets of her life feature prominently in her work. She destroyed almost all of her personal correspondence and most of her diaries, therefore ensuring that she achieved her ambition to become ‘one of the world’s best-kept secrets’. She died in 1968 of heart failure, soon after the publication of her most celebrated work, the novel Ice.

Contents

Introduction

Guilty

Author

Copyright

Introduction

It is possible that around six decades or more have passed since Anna Kavan wrote Guilty. Each of those decades has produced unimagined change: social, political, literary and technological advances challenging existing thinking and creating new paradigms. It is so remarkable, then, that this previously unpublished work from Kavan’s pen maintains a freshness and immediacy that resonates in the twenty-first century. In the course of transferring ownership of her unpublished work, an anonymous reader inserted an observation between the pages of Guilty, indicating an estimated temporal context. The handwritten note, signed ‘M.W.’ and dated 1989, reads ‘this novel is set in the First World War and is related by a youth whose father is a pacifist’.

Kavan was no stranger to war, surviving the First World War as a teenager and losing her only son, Bryan Ferguson, in 1944 to the carnage of the Second World War. She spent twenty-two months, in 1941–2, living in New Zealand with an expatriate English pacifist and conscientious objector, Ian Hamilton. With him she shared the social disapproval and condemnation experienced by those who chose to take such a stance, enduring the receipt of poison-pen letters, always anonymously authored, the whispers of locals and the wholesale dismissal of ‘shirkers’ by conscripted men and women. It was only when Hamilton’s incarceration became an inevitability that Kavan reluctantly, and with considerable difficulty, secured a return passage to England, undertaking an astonishing journey through the enemy-submarine-infested waters of the Pacific and Atlantic oceans, the sole woman aboard a small, battered, wool-carrying cargo ship. It would not be an exaggeration to propose that few other women, of any nationality, would have made the same 12,000-mile voyage during such dangerous times. The ten-week passage provided Kavan with ample time to reflect on the nature of conscientious objection and its impact on her own life. Provocatively, Hamilton’s young son, Duncan, was sent to boarding-school during the period of his father’s resistance to compulsory conscription. An autobiographical historicity was established, providing a compelling argument that facts preceded fiction.

Before her time in New Zealand Kavan had spent three months in 1940–41 in in New York, assimilated into that city’s tight circle of exiled writers, poets, musicians and artists who had fled Hitler’s Third Reich and who were referred to as ‘Communazis’ by FBI boss J. Edgar Hoover. Counting Lion Feuchtwanger among her friends, Kavan was a ready sympathizer with the dispossessed and the ‘outlandish’, sharing their justified sense of persecution and apprehension. It is therefore tempting to correct M.W.’s estimation and date the setting, if not writing, of Guilty to somewhere in the mid-1940s, a possibility that would acknowledge her experiences as a personal and powerful means of informing the narrative. Indeed, the opening sentence of the book tells us that the protagonist’s father ‘served with distinction in two wars and emerged from the army a minor hero’, information that implies participation in the two world wars.

Kavan returned to England on 28 January 1943 after three and a half years away. The culture shock of immediate and unavoidable immersion into London’s wartime difficulties profoundly affected her, prompting depression and an urgent wish to return to the relative tranquillity and comfort of New Zealand. Within days of her arrival, she initiated the paperwork required to secure an exit permit and a passage on any vessel bound for the South Pacific. For the duration of the war she continued a regular and, at times, desperately worded correspondence with Ian Hamilton, reinforcing in every letter her regret at having left New Zealand. Her letters illustrate the effect of the impersonal ‘machinery’ of bureaucracy on the mentality of the individual, whose sole intent might be to house or feed oneself. The following excerpts exemplify the personal experiences which may well have informed the writing of this book.

February 14 1943, c/- Barclay’s Bank, Piccadilly Circus, W1 [written while Kavan stayed in a hotel in London]

To find a flat seems quite impossible & I’m still in this place that’s full of worldly gilt & decayed past magnificence & American officers with blondes … Dolphin Square and all the other big blocks of flats have mile-long waiting lists. The only alternative is some dingy, grim, grey, Bayswater bedsittingroom. I suppose I’ll come to it in time.

February 25 1943, c/- Barclay’s Bank, Piccadilly Circus, W1 I can’t get a flat anywhere, & it’s utterly hopeless to find any place at less than 6 guineas, and that’s hard enough. Next week I’m taking a large room in Hampstead which is the best I can do. It’s probably a mistake, like all my moves, but I have to go somewhere cheaper & that’s all I can find.

March 7 1943, 15 Cannon Place NW3

I wish I cd describe these vast government institutions to you: the passes, forms, official documents of all kinds; the miles of corridors; the innumerable officials to be interviewed [by] in their different bureaux; the extra-ordinarily complicated & apparently irrelevant procedures. It’s pure Kafka, of course. At times when I am in one or another of these enormous buildings waiting for an interview with some new authority, I feel as if I were the victim of a private madness induced by too much reading of the ‘The Trial’ and ‘The Castle’.

October 12 1943, Crossways Cottage, Well Rd NW3

I sent a cable to you to tell you that the Authorities had actually granted my permit to leave the country. But of course that doesn’t mean that I’ll get away soon. All shipping arrangements here are made through a central board & one is simply notified that there’s a passage about 24 hours before the ship’s due to sail. NZ House informs me that there won’t be any accommodation for some months; almost certainly not this year … the Authorities may decide to cancel the permit in their capricious & unpredictable way.

Guilty is an anomaly. Deceptively, it resembles in tone and style Kavan’s early work, written under her married name, Helen Ferguson, and famously described by her friend Rhys Davies as ‘Home Counties novels’. Her occasional use of clichés and the chronological linearity of this story, completely absent in her later work, contradict the Kafkaesque sinister content, leaving the reader unprepared for the disconcerting developments that unfold. It is Eagle’s Nest (published by Peter Owen in 1957) which the Kavan enthusiast associates most with the work of Franz Kafka. In 1983 Robert Hauptman observed that ‘it is in Eagle’s Nest that the full influence of Kafka and modernism are palpable for the first time’ in Kavan’s writing (A CriticalSurvey of Long Fiction, edited by Frank Northen Magill, Salem Press, Pasadena, 1983). Impressed by the ‘insistence upon dream, fantasy, and escape into unreality, the quest, the narrative structure, and the ambiguity’, he concludes that Eagle’s Nest ‘is one of Kavan’s outstanding books, particularly as it is flawless’. I suggest that Guilty is more unnerving, more disorienting, and therefore more Kafkaesque, because it adheres more closely to perceived reality, to the ordinariness of a single unspectacular life. No castles, no ruins, no mountainous terrain. The topiary chessmen at Mark’s school, ominous in the dark, are, after all, simply trees.

The horror evolves in the simple task of finding somewhere to live in an increasingly unfamiliar world. If the reader of Kavan’s impressive list of publications should be called upon to identify an especially ‘Kavanesque’ feature of her post-1940 writing, he or she would undoubtedly point to the disturbing motif of unreality and to her portrayal of the precariousness of the liminal mindscape between sanity and insanity. The human condition is universal, but few dare to write of it with such acuity. Kavan was a heroin addict and, like her antecedents Thomas de Quincey and Jean Cocteau, she allowed her drug use to take her imagination into scenes denied the non-drug user. Her most successful novel, Ice (1967), was chosen by Brian Aldiss as his Science Fiction Book of the Year, an indication of the outer limits Kavan visited in her imagined and imaginary discourse.

While Guilty manifests little of the heroin-influenced style or content of Kavan’s post-war writing, it does feature several of her recurrent themes. It is no surprise that Kavan chooses ‘Mr Spector’ as the name of the duplicitous and threatening character who looms over the young male protagonist, Mark. The layered meaning of ‘spectre’ as both ominous presence and reflected image would have suited her well. The mirror followed her, observing her from all angles and challenging her troubled sense of identity. She was a slave to its critical eye, alternating between self-love and self-loathing but always aware of its spectral and un forgiving presence. Mark is a marked man – his destiny is predetermined and beyond his control, his vulnerability established by the pacifist actions of his father. His inherited boyhood guilt, thrust upon him by social prejudices and compounded by an inability to find acceptance among his peers, primes him for the paranoiac events of adulthood. He becomes ‘part of an elaborate hoax, of which [he] was to be the victim’. His weakness is his love for Carla, an emotion that exposes his detachment from his own reality, the ‘disconcerting sense of estrangement from [his] own self’.

The British writer and journalist Virginia Ironside, a professed fan of Kavan’s writing, has commented on what she identifies in her work as an abiding sense of guilt and associated pending punishment. Ironside speculates on the possible source of this guilt, considering Kavan’s heroin addiction and a childish sense of responsibility for her father’s suicide. He drowned in the harbour at Tuxpan, Veracruz, Mexico, on 22 February 1911, when Kavan was nearly ten years old. This tragedy had a huge impact on the child, compounding her already developed sense of parental abandonment. Did she experience guilt? Possibly. Children personalize rejection, assuming that their behaviour has somehow causally contributed to the event. However, if Kavan’s personal guilt is identifiable, it is to be found in her chosen position of social isolation, a stance necessitated by her impatience with hypocrisy and her intolerance of those she regarded as her intellectual inferiors. Her friends were few, mostly male and often homosexual, and she was wont to estrange herself from them for periods of time, before cautiously reconciling. Mark describes this:

Anybody who’s ever attempted to do it will know that it’s never easy to start life again, especially with very little money and without friends. Eternal regret is the price I must pay for the idyllic companionship I have known and lost. Now I’m more alone than I’ve ever been, not only because I no longer have any friends but because I know that however closely another life may impinge on mine ultimately I exist in impenetrable isolation.

The reader of this, the latest in Anna Kavan’s impressive list of published works, will be intrigued by her handling of internalized and subconscious guilt. Her ability to navigate the inner landscape does not fail to impress.

Jennifer SturmUniversity of Auckland, New Zealand, 2007

Guilty

My father served with distinction in two wars and emerged from the army a minor hero; whereupon he astounded everybody by a public declaration of pacifism. I was very young at the time, but I distinctly remember the day he came back to our country cottage looking most resplendent, I thought, in his fine uniform.

My mother had been to the station to meet him, but I, because I was getting over some childish complaint, had, to my disgust, been left at home with the maid, a disappointment for which I expected compensation in the form of much attention from him. But he only said, ‘Hullo, Mark’, and gave me a careless sort of hug as he passed on his way upstairs. I was still convalescent and easily upset by small things or by nothing at all and, feeling most injured, began to whimper, glancing at my mother, who, with a flushed unhappy face, was gazing after him. I’d had her to myself for most of my life, and no doubt she had spoiled me, especially during my recent illness. So when she said sharply, ‘Oh, don’t start grizzling’, and then ran upstairs without taking any more notice of me, I was so astonished that I stopped crying at once.

The bang of the back door told me the maid had gone out, hurrying after her freedom, delayed on my account, leaving only the three of us in the cottage. Though I was tempted to creep up the stairs to listen to what my parents were saying, I didn’t dare do so with my mother in her present mood, eavesdropping being a sin she condemned severely. All sorts of wild fancies went through my head, of which I favoured most the idea that my father had suddenly gone mad. Perhaps because the voices upstairs seemed to be arguing, my thoughts turned to a sensational crime (lurid details of which I had heard from the servant girl) committed recently by a soldier who, on his return from the war, had slaughtered his entire family.

Suppose my father were to kill my mother and then come down and kill me? My skin crept with delicious horror as I pictured him with the still smoking revolver in his hand, levelling it at me, saying something extraordinary before he fired. Would it hurt much? Would he shoot himself immediately afterwards, or wait to fire the remaining shots at the policemen who would come for him, reserving only the final bullet for his own death?

I still had a shamefully babyish fear of loud noises, and what I really dreaded most was the bang. Our home was far from any town, and treats such as visits to the circus or panto mime were made more attractive by their rarity, but my pleasure was always much reduced on these occasions if a gun appeared on the stage, keeping me in such agonizing suspense that when it was fired at last I could hardly stop myself screaming.

It was a different matter, however, to listen for a shot I knew would never come; an experience half agreeable, half terrifying, like the fearful thrill of the game where you hide in the dark and wait for someone to find you. But my imagin ation soon proved too strong for me. The pretence was threatening to turn into a waking nightmare, beyond my control, when, to my vast relief, my parents came downstairs again, and I ran to meet them. A sudden sense of something wrong stopped me dead, and I realized they were still too absorbed in their argument even to be aware of my presence – a state of affairs so unprecedented and altogether unnatural that I felt the obscure threat of nightmare again, all the more frightening for being imposed on the surroundings and apparently normal circumstances of everyday.

While the situation oscillated between the two poles of nightmare and norm, I observed that my father, in this short time, had already changed into civilian clothes, in which I did not think he looked half so fine. I recognized the tweed suit as the one that had been hanging up in the big wardrobe ever since he’d left, taken out at regular intervals by my mother, religiously brushed and aired. Despite these attentions, it seemed to me old and shabby compared with the magnificent uniform he had been wearing and was carrying now on his arm. I noticed that he was also carrying several small boxes that looked interesting, as if they might contain presents, and, normality getting the upper hand, I moved forward again.

But nightmare reassumed its ascendancy as he walked straight past as if I had not been there and, closely pursued by my mother, went into the kitchen, thus completing my utter confusion, for I had never seen him in there and hardly thought he knew such a place existed. Should I follow? I had not been told not to. I could tell by their voices that my parents had been caught by one of those sudden emotional storms, always liable to sweep upon grown-up people like typhoons, out of nowhere, strange, frightening, incomprehensible outbursts of love or hate, which seemed to fling them about helpless as battered pieces of wreckage, while I was left out, ignored.

My one small satisfaction was to know I could watch without being noticed; but I had no sooner entered the kitchen than I’d have given anything to have stayed in the other room. Had it been possible I’d have run away. But now, in true nightmare fashion, I was frozen in immobility, unable to speak or move, forced to witness my own horrific imaginings made real.

I’d imagined my father mad, and what but madness could now make him snatch the lid off the dustbin (my voice frozen within me, I trembled all over at the thunderous nerve-shattering clang with which it crashed to the floor) and proceed to stuff his beautiful uniform into it, on top of potato peelings, tea leaves and garbage of all descriptions? The bin was already half full. It was not easy to thrust the garments into it; he had to cram them down with both hands, finally setting his foot on the top of the lot, and with evident satisfaction stamping the fine material deep into the squelching, malodorous mess.

Aghast, I looked at my mother, wordlessly imploring her to stop this madness, or at least to assure me these acts were not as mad as they seemed, appealing to her (as hitherto in every crisis I’d appealed successfully) to save me from this fantastic nightmare. For the first time in my life the assurance wasn’t forthcoming. She neither put an end to the grotesque and frightful scene nor removed me from it. And as I watched her fluttering around, pecking and plucking at him with ineffectual darting motions and thin protesting cries, as flimsy and useless as a bird’s, it gradually dawned on me that, at this moment, she was almost as helpless as I was myself. She was not, as I’d always believed, infallible and omnipotent where I was concerned; there were some situations against which she was powerless to protect me.

I know one doesn’t grow out of babyhood on a single occasion, but I must have taken a long step forward when I made this shocking discovery. And perhaps the peculiar nightmare quality of the episode has stayed so clear in my memory, with all its crazy detail, because it obscured to some extent the realization that the being upon whom I’d lived till then in total dependence was, after all, only human. Meanwhile, it was the turn of the little boxes which had looked so promising, when viewed as I normally viewed the chance of a present. Throughout my father’s performance, they had been lying disregarded on the dresser beside me. I wished I’d slipped one of them into my pocket, as I easily could have done at any moment up to now, when he gathered them up in his strong sunburned hands, snapped them open one after the other, ripped out the medals embedded within and consigned these, too, to the dustbin.

I remember our kitchen as rather a dull little room, a drab background across which the decorations flashed, briefly exotic as a shower of meteors, before they slid out of sight with no more fuss and less noise than coins sliding into a purse; far too pretty, I thought, with their rainbow ribbons, to be swallowed by the sordid, dirty grey bin full of disgusting rubbish. Since there was no room left in it for the cases that had contained them, my father threw these on to the floor and dispatched them in the same summary fashion, stamping them into shapelessness and grinding beneath his heel those that resisted destruction.

It was all over in a moment. The glittering discs and crosses were gone without trace. Nothing was left of that brave display but a few broken scraps of framework and torn shreds of leather and velvet, which he kicked into a corner where they could not be seen. Lifting the fallen lid, he replaced it carefully on the bin, looking around to make sure he’d left no sign of disorder anywhere. Then, satisfied that the room was restored precisely to its original state, he went across to the sink and turned on the tap.