Wednesday, July 20, 2022

A Christian reads William Golding, Pincher Martin (London: Faber and Faber, 1956)

 


William Golding’s style of writing is perhaps something of an acquired taste. In his novels, much of the content is taken up with descriptive writing. This is “atmospheric”: in other words, he is extremely good at conjuring up sensations, and mood. Sometimes, the atmosphere is almost claustrophobic, and foetid. This was the case, for me, with the books in his “Sea” trilogy, the first being Rites of Passage.  Perhaps appropriately so, as it is set on an eighteenth century sailing ship, with its “close quarters”. Golding is also allusive, cryptic (might one even say “elusive”) in his writing, which is often “metaphorical” and symbolic. All of this makes his novels (those I’ve read anyway) somewhat difficult, and one has to persevere, especially as the absence of much dialogue makes the writing somewhat “dense”. His most famous novel, and his first, Lord of the Flies, is somewhat different in this respect. It is also, perhaps, his best.

I first read Pincher Martin at Canterbury University in 1971. It was on the reading list for one of my MA in English papers, “The Modern Novel” (I think that Pincher Martin was probably about as modern as the reading list got). Anyway it made a very strong impression on me: and provided me with an insight into what hell might be like, not to mention eternity and judgment.

Pincher Martin is about a man, a naval officer in the Royal Navy, during the war, whose ship gets torpedoed.  The book opens with Christopher Hadley Martin, to give him his full name, drowning. Then he finds himself cast up on a rock in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Most of the rest of the book deals with his experience of being on the rock, his struggle to survive, to find food and water, and to attempt to ensure that he is spotted by any passing ship, or aircraft flying overhead.

The physicality of his experience is captured by Golding’s descriptive style. One can almost feel Martin’s discomfort as he attempts to sleep in a crevice he has found which gives his some shelter. He talks to himself, as he attempts to keep focused on what he must do to survive, and to prevent himself from going mad.

Christopher (Pincher) Martin had been an actor before the war, and a somewhat unpleasant, self-centred man. The narrative of his time on the rock is interspersed with flashbacks to events in his life: the director of one of the plays (and whom Martin has cuckolded–this is not explicitly revealed, an instance of Golding’s allusiveness) wants Martin to play one of the seven deadly sins. The director, called Pete, says Martin can choose which one to play. The following exchange takes place as they examine the masks for the various characters.

            “I don’t mind playing Sloth, Pete.”

            “Not Sloth. Shall we ask Helen, Chris? I value my wife’s advice.”

            “Steady, Pete.”

            “What about a spot of Lechery?”

            “Pete! Stop it.”

            “Don’t mind me Chris, old man. I’m just a bit wrought-up that’s all. Now here’s a fine piece of work, ladies and gentlemen, guaranteed unworn. Any offers? Going to the smooth-looking gentleman with the wavy hair and profile. Going! Going–”

            “What’s is supposed to be, old man?”

            “Darling, it simply you! Don’t you think, George?”

            “Definitely, old man, definitely.”

            “Chris–Greed. Greed–Chris. Know each other.”

            “Anything to please you, Pete.”

            “Let me make you two better acquainted. This painted bastard here takes anything he can lay his hands on. Not food, Chris, that’s far too simple. He takes the best part, the best seat, the most money, the best notice, the best woman. He was born with his mouth and his flies open and both hands out to grab. He’s a cosmic case of the bugger who gets his penny and someone else’s bun. Isn’t that right, George?”

            “Come on, Pete. Come and lie down for a bit.”

            “Think you can play Martin, Greed?”

This relatively short exchange gives an insight into Martin’s character. It is part of the genius of the book that the struggle to survive includes a review by Martin of his past life in the snippets of flashback.

Chris’s ship goes down partly because of an order Chris gives, intending that a friend, of whom he is jealous should be flung overboard.

I am reluctant to give away the ending: and I won’t. But it throws a new perspective on the whole narrative. And it opened up for me a theological reflection, on the nature of eternity (eternity “contracted to a span”, to borrow from Charles Wesley). In his The Great Divorce, C. S. Lewis reduces hell to a crack in the ground; to a “span of space” if you will. Golding does something similar, only he reduces hell to a “span of time”, the time that Pincher Martin spends on his mid-Atlantic rock. Meanwhile, judgment resides in the flashbacks. Martin reviews (is forced to review?) his life, and to understand himself as he truly is.

[Postscript: I’ve entitled this “A Christian reads…” and not “A Christian reading of…” because that may be construed as the Christian reading, and I don’t wish to suggest that mine is such. There are as many readings, no doubt, as there are readers. But this is one Christian’s take on this book. If you would like a couple of literary critics’ take on the book, you might like to look at Mark Kinkead-Weekes and Ian Gregor, William Golding: A Critical Study. Revised Edition; London: Faber and Faber, 1984]

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