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Executive Times |
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2008 Book Reviews |
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The
Meaning of Night: A Confession by Michael Cox |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click
on title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Dark Michael
Cox is an expert in 19th century popular fiction, so when he chose
to write his first novel, it comes as no surprise that he set it at that time
and draws on all the structure and technique of that period. The
Meaning of Night: A Confession is even presented with a preface that
introduces it as if it were a lost manuscript. Protagonist Edward Glyver
confesses at the beginning of the novel to murdering someone for practice to
see if he was up to the same task when he faces his nemesis, Phoebus Gaunt.
Along with the rest of the characters, neither Glyver nor Gaunt are pure good
or evil, and Cox presents their secrets and their complex characters with
great skill. Here’s an excerpt, from
Chapter 2, pp. 38-40: I
lived alone, my only visitor
being the woman, Mrs Grainger, who came from time to time to undertake some
modest domestic chores. My
work-table was littered with papers and note-books; a once handsome, but now
faded, Turkey carpet covered most of the floor, and about the room were
scattered several items of furniture brought from my mother's house in
Dorset. From this apartment a door led off, first to a narrow bedroom lit by
a small skylight, and then, beyond, to an even smaller space — really no more
than a closet — that served as both wardrobe and wash-room. The
face that greeted me in the little cracked mirror that stood on a shelf above
the wash-stand in this cubicle did not seem, to my objective gaze, to be the
face of a cold-blooded murderer. The eyes looked back genially, and with calm
intensity. Here was a face to trust, to confide in; yet I had despatched
another human being with almost as little thought as I might crush an insect.
Was I, then, some dissimulating devil in human form? No. I was but a man, a
good man at heart, if the truth be told, driven to set right the wrong that
had been done to me, absolved — even of murder — by the implacable fatalities
to which I was then convinced my life had been subject. To me, this power was
the Iron Master, forever forging the chains that bound me to actions I must take.
My destiny, I believed, was to take back what was rightfully mine, whatever
the consequences. I
peered a little closer into the mirror. A long lean face, with large,
heavy-lidded dark eyes; olive-coloured skin; a nose perhaps a little skewed,
but still finely shaped; a mouth that carried the merest hint of a smile,
even in repose; black hair swept back from the forehead, innocent of Macassar
oil and abundant at the sides, but, I confess, receding fast, and greying a
little at the temples. Fine moustachios. Very fine. Taken all in all, I
believe that I stood before the world as a moderately handsome fellow. But
what was this? I moved my face closer to the grimy glass. There, on the very
tip of my shirt collar, was a splash of dull red. I
stood for a moment, bending towards the mirror, gripped by a sudden
fascinated fear. This dumb, yet still eloquent, witness to the night's
activities in Cain-court took me completely by surprise. Its pursuit of me
seemed like a violation, and I quickly reviewed the dangerous possibilities
that it presented. Had
it been enough to betray me? Had one of the waiters in Quinn's noticed it
when it had still been vivid and unequivocal, or the flower-seller when I had
returned — foolishly, as it might now prove — to the scene of my crime? Had
Bella observed it, despite the haste of passion? Any of these, on reading or
hearing of the murder, might recall the presence of blood on my shirt, and
suspicion might thence be aroused. I looked more closely at the
incriminating relic of my experiment. It
was insignificant enough in itself, certainly, though it constituted a very
world of meaning. Here was a remnant of the lifeblood of the stranger I had
happened upon in Threadneedle-street as he went about his business, all
unknowing of what was to befall him. Had he been returning home to his wife
and children after a day in the City, or on his way to join a company of friends
for dinner? What was his name, and who would mourn him? How had he seen his
life ending? (Not in a pool of gore in a public thoroughfare, I warrant.) Did
he have parents still alive whose hearts would break at the terrible demise
of their dear son? Like a soldier in battle, I had ignored such questions in
the heat of action, as being irrelevant to the task in hand; but now, as I
stared at the little spot of dried blood on my collar, I could not prevent
them rushing insistently into my mind. My
newly purchased gloves were, I knew, unsullied. But were there other traces
of the crime that I had failed to notice? I hastily took my great-coat from
its peg and hurried into the sitting-room to spread it out on my work-table,
snatching up an eye-glass from beneath a pile of papers as I did so. By
the strengthening light of morning, I pored over every inch of the garment,
turning the material methodically, occasionally bringing a piece up close to
my eye-glass, like a jeweller eagerly examining some object of great worth.
Then I removed my jacket and trousers, then my waistcoat, shirt and neck-tie:
all were subjected to the same frantic scrutiny. Finally, I inspected my hat
and placed my boots on the table, bathed now in pale sunlight. I went
meticulously over the upper surfaces and soles of each boot with a dampened
handkerchief, using slow circular movements and stopping every few seconds to
see whether the white linen had taken up any incriminating residue of blood. Having satisfied myself that I
could find no other physical traces that could link me to my victim, I
returned to the wash-room, where I diligently soaked my shirt collar in cold
water to remove the bloodstain. In a few minutes, washed, shaved, and
combed, and with a clean shirt on my back, I prepared to face the day. The Meaning
of Night has the heft of some Victorian novels, coming it at over 650
pages. Thanks to Cox, a reader’s interest remains keen throughout, and those
who want to indulge in something lush and dark will find much pleasure on
these pages. Steve
Hopkins, May 15, 2008 |
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Go to Executive Times Archives |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the June 2008 issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The Meaning of Night.htm For Reprint Permission, Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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