New Stuff

From time to time I’d like to review books that catch my attention even though they may be tangential at best to the notion of exploration. This is not the case, though, with Duncan Fallowell’s excellent Going as Far as I can which was published in February this year. It is ostensibly a book about New Zealand and a visit Fallowell made there with the fragile hook of finding out about a tour made in 1948 by Lawrence Olivier and Vivien Leigh. These gimmicks are we not tired of them? Chatwin and his Uncle Charlie’s piece of dinosaur skin from Patagonia. That book about Irish fridges and playing tennis with the Moldavian football team. And others, many others. But in this case it works well because it is genuine and guileless. Olivier is a fascinating figure. And it is a strange thought to be in New Zealand of all places touring with a theatre group. It interests and intrigues us.

But the book is really about the minute observation of New Zealand, trying to catch it, trying to convey what it is like and what it’s essence is like. It is a daring book- we can all visit New Zealand for the price of a medium quality fridge- it’s easy, like all air travel. But the author erects and ineffable barrier to entry- his eye, his astute feeling for place. It helps that he isn’t a middleclass or even upper or lower class tosser. He is a beach bum with a classical education, the very best sort of traveler.

Exploration is about discovery. The old distinction between some kind of objective accumulation of fact, the province of the old European explorers (now parodied by the bearded worthies of the British Antarctic survey and other instruments of scientific simulation) and the private discovery of self and a new place and self in a new place is now dissolved. I’m not sure why or how this happened but now we are as interested in Ranulph Fiennes toes and how frostbitten they get as we are in any rock samples he may bring back from the south pole. Perhaps we already have too many rock samples.

The author’s book proceeds as a rather exciting exploration of New Zealand which is new to me and new, also, at the time of the journey to Duncan Fallowell. You feel him pushing out further and further each day- living in the now of new experience which is the addictive edge of travel, easily blunted in exploration, as traditionally conceived, by the unpleasantness of the conditions. Then the exploration begins to falter as social arrangements begin to impose themselves. This is part of the author’s policy of complete and transparent honesty which in the main, the 95% main, serves him very well. But I rather wonder that his accidental persona- gay, single, adventurous- which perfectly suits the best traveler persona (lots of chances for strange and interesting and undomestic encounters) becomes tarnished by the revelation that Duncan, like everyone, would prefer a nice Christmas lunch with friendly friends to the opportunity to meditate alone on a rock with a couple of penguins.

Happy times in domestic surroundings- the warm fug of mince pies baking and chardonnay being uncorked (or some more exquisite wine- the author is clearly an expert)- makes for a kind of literary Wilton carpet experience rather than the ancient oriental weave one was expecting. One flips it over and sees a made in England label and the evidence of machine stitching is all too apparent.

You see the author is planning to stay with people (Bernard and Daisy) who he rather likes and who have a rather nice house- but from a narrative point of view we might prefer people he hates, or loves and who live in a bus shelter or a castle on an island. In the end he doesn’t stay with them but their very existence, the fact that they connect with the author beneath the established weft of his tale is, for me, a minor minus. Maybe I just didn’t like the sound of them. In any case this diversion does not impair the book; it is merely an interesting development and a sign, perhaps, of the limiting effect of a philosophy of writing that pushes honesty (ie. self revelation) ahead of narrative qualities. As Duncan’s pal Matt says, “Australia made sense because I was there for work. But this place doesn’t make sense. Why am I here?”
“Because I’m here and Bernard and Daisy are here.”
“Is that it?”

Fallowell’s prose is as always: supple and sly and very very funny at times; he is probably the master at bringing highbrow down to earth with a choice bit of vernacular and no clunks. He makes Martin Amis look somehow old fashioned, trying too hard. You can enjoy this tome for the sentences alone.

Because the author is gay and single and on the prowl the book has a decent amount of sex in it- a lamentable lacuna in most travel books- even Miller’s Collosus of Maroussi has no sex in it, though maybe Miller is a special case and it’s a good thing. Travel books, whatever they pretend, always stand in some kind of relation to fictional tales. This book is a distant relative of all the quest stories ever written and so the author must find something and preferably someone. He does, in a deft way, and then loses them, it is satisfactorily done but it is not the whole point, it’s just a way of tying up the loose ends. The reality of this book is an honest and hugely successful attempt to make you feel you have experienced what the author has experienced, been where he has been. One trusts his eye, his judgement. A wonderful achievement.

Going as Far as I Can
by Duncan Fallowell
Profile Books
£12.99