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craigwallwork's review
3.0
“I think I’ve killed Somebody.”
And so begins Stephen Clayton’s debut novel, The Art Of Being Dead, a story that underlines how by doing very little in life, you can still be drawn into anarchy, shame and murder. You would expect with such an absorbing opening line, and blurb tease as "Can you become a murderer by doing nothing?", that the book will be subversive, dark and broody. You’d be mistaken; The Art of Being Dead is much more.
Set in a bleak northern English town during the late 1960s, the story centres around Jonathan, a 24-year-old man who lacks commitment the same way a drunk lacks the conviction to enter sobriety without force or intervention. From an early age he is content only to exist, to keep on moving forward without reflection, for Jonathan believes that to commit to anything would make him accountable for his actions. This is beautifully illustrated when Jonathan, age fifteen, decides to become a writer, an act to help purge his mind of musings and observations. He takes a piece of paper, pen and delivers the line:
Long after he had gone his voice remained, quivering against the side of my head like a knife stuck in a tree.
Looking back on the words Jonathan is instantly shocked. Before committing the line to paper, the sentence was free to roam in his mind, bearing no consequence but to change his mood. But on paper the words are there for all to see. Therefore, there comes to him a responsibility to carry on, to finish the task, and inevitably, allow the words to be read by someone else. All at once he realises that behind every great achievement, every inspired stroke of pen ever delivered, or every great work of art undertaken, is a person, a person who created and in turn bares ownership to the piece. Jonathan is not ready yet for such grand responsibility, nor does he wish to influence, or intervene in another person’s life. But what Jonathan fails to comprehend at the time is, the more he attempts to distance himself, both emotionally and physically, the more he has bearing on everything, and everyone around him.
After losing his mother to cancer, and his father eventually to alcoholism, Jonathan takes what little heritance was left him, rents a council flat, and lives out his days in the local pub. It is here he buys his way into a group of friends, and it is here his life changes forever. Though most of these associates are dysfunctional in their own unique way, (a promiscuous love interest; an apathetic and disgruntled builder; a devout Christian, and a drug dealer) it is a sociopath called, Kieran, who Jonathan gravitates to more than any other. Kieran can be best described as a cross between both Begbie from Irwine Welsh’s Trainspotting, and Sigmund Freud (a dangerous mix, I think you’ll agree). If Jonathan seems to be able to remain fixed on doing very little to intervene in his own life, Kieran by chance, is the opposite and implicates him in matters he could not foresee. After a random, and brutal, attack upon a shopkeeper ends in murder, Kieran goes on the run, hiding out at Jonathan’s flat, and if driven by some maternal instinct, Jonathan takes him in and looks after him. With the police breathing down their necks, Jonathan decides to move Kieran to a safe hiding place. It is then that Stephen Clayton cleverly interweaves a third protagonist into the plot; an old abandoned mill, which, for Kieran is nothing short of a detention centre or reformatory, but for Jonathan the mill symbolises a blank canvas on which he hopes to create a masterpiece – his one and only commitment in life. But how far will Jonathan go to see his masterpiece made real, and who eventually will suffer for his art?
Tipped as a best-seller and been entered for the Guardian First Novel Award, The Art Of Being Dead is at times beautiful, poetic, and endearing, and then, with just the turn of a page, it pulls you into the seedy underbelly of darkness that exists within us all.
And so begins Stephen Clayton’s debut novel, The Art Of Being Dead, a story that underlines how by doing very little in life, you can still be drawn into anarchy, shame and murder. You would expect with such an absorbing opening line, and blurb tease as "Can you become a murderer by doing nothing?", that the book will be subversive, dark and broody. You’d be mistaken; The Art of Being Dead is much more.
Set in a bleak northern English town during the late 1960s, the story centres around Jonathan, a 24-year-old man who lacks commitment the same way a drunk lacks the conviction to enter sobriety without force or intervention. From an early age he is content only to exist, to keep on moving forward without reflection, for Jonathan believes that to commit to anything would make him accountable for his actions. This is beautifully illustrated when Jonathan, age fifteen, decides to become a writer, an act to help purge his mind of musings and observations. He takes a piece of paper, pen and delivers the line:
Long after he had gone his voice remained, quivering against the side of my head like a knife stuck in a tree.
Looking back on the words Jonathan is instantly shocked. Before committing the line to paper, the sentence was free to roam in his mind, bearing no consequence but to change his mood. But on paper the words are there for all to see. Therefore, there comes to him a responsibility to carry on, to finish the task, and inevitably, allow the words to be read by someone else. All at once he realises that behind every great achievement, every inspired stroke of pen ever delivered, or every great work of art undertaken, is a person, a person who created and in turn bares ownership to the piece. Jonathan is not ready yet for such grand responsibility, nor does he wish to influence, or intervene in another person’s life. But what Jonathan fails to comprehend at the time is, the more he attempts to distance himself, both emotionally and physically, the more he has bearing on everything, and everyone around him.
After losing his mother to cancer, and his father eventually to alcoholism, Jonathan takes what little heritance was left him, rents a council flat, and lives out his days in the local pub. It is here he buys his way into a group of friends, and it is here his life changes forever. Though most of these associates are dysfunctional in their own unique way, (a promiscuous love interest; an apathetic and disgruntled builder; a devout Christian, and a drug dealer) it is a sociopath called, Kieran, who Jonathan gravitates to more than any other. Kieran can be best described as a cross between both Begbie from Irwine Welsh’s Trainspotting, and Sigmund Freud (a dangerous mix, I think you’ll agree). If Jonathan seems to be able to remain fixed on doing very little to intervene in his own life, Kieran by chance, is the opposite and implicates him in matters he could not foresee. After a random, and brutal, attack upon a shopkeeper ends in murder, Kieran goes on the run, hiding out at Jonathan’s flat, and if driven by some maternal instinct, Jonathan takes him in and looks after him. With the police breathing down their necks, Jonathan decides to move Kieran to a safe hiding place. It is then that Stephen Clayton cleverly interweaves a third protagonist into the plot; an old abandoned mill, which, for Kieran is nothing short of a detention centre or reformatory, but for Jonathan the mill symbolises a blank canvas on which he hopes to create a masterpiece – his one and only commitment in life. But how far will Jonathan go to see his masterpiece made real, and who eventually will suffer for his art?
Tipped as a best-seller and been entered for the Guardian First Novel Award, The Art Of Being Dead is at times beautiful, poetic, and endearing, and then, with just the turn of a page, it pulls you into the seedy underbelly of darkness that exists within us all.
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