It Won’t Get You Anywhere
Several days ago, I spent a night reading through I Was Following This Girl by Desmond Skirrow, a 1967 British spy novel which I had ordered, more or less on a whim, for 3 dollars from a used seller on Amazon after having by chance read a very short bio of Skirrow on Wikipedia in which his work is described as ‘outstanding’, ‘tough, irreverent and witty’, and in which Punch magazine is quoted to say ‘the Chandler formula, basically, but louder and funnier.’ I enjoyed it very much, and dare say that I could not review it much better or more succinctly than it has been above.
So I decided to splurge and order another of his three John Brock novels, It Won’t Get You Anywhere, for the princely sum of ten big ones, and it has come today. The first book was a library copy which arrived somewhat battered and very jacketless; this one, published by The Bodley Head, has made its way to me in considerably better condition, and it’s a great piece of design. I’d show it to you if I had a working digital camera, but for now I’ll have to describe it.
The cover is in the style of a newspaper page; the title is in big red block letters, and below, in impeccable journalistic style, is an article about the events of the book, with subheadings like ‘MODEL’, ‘EXPLOSIONS’, and ‘THE NATION GRIEVES’. The byline is, of course, ‘by DESMOND SKIRROW’ and all of this might add up, to your average design intelligentsium, to be very gimmicky and hackneyed, but I’m rather taken in by the whole thing.
The book itself is impeccably printed. I don’t know anything about The Bodley Head, but they’ve got a great name, their logo is a woodcut of a Tudor gentleman holding a book (Mister Bodley, I presume), and I like their work. The title page is elegantly set, and the colophon on the verso warms my heart with the line, ‘Set in Monotype Plantin’. That every publisher does not tell you the font in which their book is set is simply inexcusable. The story itself is set close, with strong, sharp letters and generous margins. I haven’t yet read a word, but my approval is strong.
I leave you with a selection from I Was Following This Girl:
In fact, it was just a couple of long minutes. Then there was light. Not much light, just a vague pink glow, like the light seen through the blood of a closed eyelid. And there was a voice speaking above me, soft and deep and calm and gentle. And it was filled with knowledge and wisdom.
“In the beginning,” it was saying, “there was only man. He hunted hairy elephants and he drew bull on the walls of his lonely cave. He was happy. And then came woman. She had blue eyes and long hair that shone like Japanese silk. And beneath it was hidden a whole packet of charms.”
“Oooh,” said another voice in the dim pink glow. “What did she do?”
“She showed a peep of herself,” said the deep quiet voice above me. “And man was excited. He ran out of his cave and lit a fire for her and grilled a jumbo steak and built her a house of banana leaves. Then she stood in the door and let the firelight shine through her long tresses and he planted a garden for her and he worked in it until he could work no longer.”
“Oooh,” said the other voice again. “Poor fellow.”
“Yes,” said the deep voice. “He worked himself into the ground for her. Then he was so tired that he put out the light and lived in the dark for ages.”
“And what happened then?” said the other voice.
“She just showed him a little more of her hidden charms,” said the deep voice. “Ankles as delicate as porcelain and calves that curved like art. His desire was reborn. He sang songs for her and painted pictures for her and invented the compass and sailed to the ends of the world.”
“Oooh.”
“Then she showed him a little more. He went mad with desire and brought her ivory and slaves and cigarettes. He built railways and fought wars for her, and ran up and down a thin red line killing fuzzie-wuzzies and yellow Chinamen and beareded Boers and bloody Germans. He gave her diamonds and caviare and the vote.”
“Provis,” I said, coming out of my pink haze into the quiet bar of the Funnybone. The Funnybone was a club, I remembered, in Brighton. Above the Rattigan Line.
“Ah,” said Provis above me. Feeling better now?”
“What happened then?” said the girl with the zeppelin breasts.
“Major Nuttley hit me with a bottle,” I said.
“She showed him a little more of her charms, of course,” said Provis, “and this time she shook them.”
“Boop-boop-a-doop,” I said.
Comments
- Hayford Peirce on April 15, 2009, at 03:33 PM
