Nicola Barker - Clear - A Transparent Novel

I look around for a bin to throw my soggy tissue in. There’s one by the lift. She follows me over.

‘I mean this guy was so anti-corporate — in his own mind— hated what he liked to call “The McDonald’s Mentality”, saw the rest of the “developed” world as burger-munching imbeciles. And there he was, standing out from the slavish crowd in his magical 4x4, guzzling his petrol, “up-grading” his tyres, threatening local schoolkids with his repulsive crash bars…’

‘You’re right. That is wack,’ I say, and press for my floor.

‘But the hypocrisy of these people! The ignorance! They think that just by owning something, by buying into something — a car, an idea, a certain type of boot, a Boxfresh jacket …’ She slaps at the open flap of my coat with her free hand…

Oi! Watch it!

‘…that they’re defining themselves against “the system”. But the system is all about people defining themselves through certain objects, or fads, and summarily rejecting others. That’s capitalism at its zenith. That’s the disease which consumes us…’

She pauses, dramatically. ‘And which we, in turn, consume.’

(Think this girl might have a future in politics?)

I gently remove the flaps of my jacket from her slapping orbit by zipping them up.

‘ Jesus ,’ I murmur, ‘I mean didn’t these fools even watch The Matrix ?’

The lift arrives. We climb in.

‘Those Wakedavid people share that exact-same mentality,’ she sighs. ‘They honestly think they’re defining their mental toughness, their sacred individualism, their righteous Englishness , against something which — if they just stopped and thought, and took a proper look —is actually much more honest and individual and vulnerable and subversive than they could ever be…’

‘Too bloody true ,’ I say.

‘Their hatred is just jealousy ,’ she splutters.

‘Hear hear ,’ I incant.

The lift stops. The doors open. I step out. She stays in.

‘See ya.’ I wave.

She nods, reaching out her hand distractedly for the fifth floor button. ‘He was right about the arm, though,’ she mutters ominously, ‘“Ethical Squatter” or not …’

( Ah . So she was listening…)

Then she suddenly frowns, peers into her bag, begins patting at her pockets, glances up.

‘Did I actually finish my ciabatta before?’

I nod.

The doors start closing.

‘Did I eat the whole thing without even noticing ?’

I shrug, then nod again.

The doors close. Her voice is very muffled…

‘Are you sure ?’

I mean where’s the trust between a man and a woman?

So you probably think this is just a cold , and that I’m simply making a big, male fuss .

Wrong, wrong, wrong .

I’m sick as a whippet.

Even the dogs have stopped growling at me on my occasional, poignant trips to the refrigerator (of course I’m not eating…That’s just where the citrus is). They know, see? They can tell.

The first three days are simply a blur (I can’t — I won’t —remember). On day four, however, Bookfinder comes up trumps with the Kafka short stories, and I feel well enough to leave the sordid confines of my fetid hutch, stagger upstairs, wrapped in a blanket, and slump down, wheezing, on to Solomon’s chic but unbelievably impractical cream suede sofa.

I read for twenty solid minutes, accompanied by my four-part Pet Sounds Sessions Beach Boys CD. I’m on disc 2, listening to Brian Wilson barking out jovial instructions about the perfect setting for the organ, bass and drums on ‘Good Vibrations’ (Yeah. Hearing that so-familiar stereo backing track slowly coming into its own from virtually nothing kinda sets my skin a-tingle. It’s like seeing this giant, disembodied hand pushing up into a bright summer sky and casually turning all the clouds around…

Okay . So no more paracetamol for me, eh ?)

I’ll tell you this for nothing, though (Wilson’s despotic meanderings aside): that story is damn strong meat:

A Hunger Artist.

It’s vicious. It’s merciless. It’s bleak and uncompromising.

I check out the useful chronology at the back of the book and discover that the story was published just a handful of months after Kafka’s death in 1924. He was only 40 years old. He died of consumption.

Twenty years later (when I move down the chronology a little further) I see how the Nazis murdered all three of his sisters. Then Grete Bloch; the mother of the son he never knew he had. Then the Czech writer, Milena Jesenska’-Pollak, to whom he entrusted his precious diaries…

Man .

The list just goes on .

I suppose Jalisa might’ve had a point re the Jewish angle. Because from what my puffy eyes can divine, Kafka really got into being a Jew in his mid to late twenties (prior to that, he’d read German literature, studied law at the German University, etc.). But in 1910 everything changed. He bought tickets to go and see this Yiddish theatre company, and was apparently so inspired by their work, that he began to bury himself in Jewish folklore, started studying Judaism seriously in 1912, then actually lectured on Yiddish a short while after.

He rediscovered his Jewishness just on the cusp of the First World War — not the greatest timing, I guess, on one level (but superlative timing, really, on another).

When you actually stop and think about it, things must’ve been pretty tough for all Europeans back then (ancient boundaries irrevocably altering, traditions in total flux, an entire generation of young men about to be haplessly slaughtered…); and starvation? Hunger ? Basic facts of life , not just mildly diverting literary metaphors.

Hmmn . That’s the best I can do for context. Let’s get to grips with the actual story , eh?

So the basic gist of ‘A Hunger Artist’ is as follows: there’s this professional Hunger Artist (the main character— duh ) who works alongside a clever impresario. He starves himself all over Europe. This is back in a time when fasting was still considered to be ‘in fashion’—those are the actual words Kafka uses. Most adults find the whole thing slightly ridiculous—‘just a joke’—but the children are totally bowled over by it (I’ve seen the kids at Blaine, and the adults, for that matter, who also totally conform to type: even the most diehard supporters can’t help smirking slightly. But the kids? They all just fall madly in love with the spectacle. The kids are hypnotised. They’re agog. They’re intoxicated…A crazy combination of doubtful and exhilarated. And instead of allowing one impulse to counter the other, to win it over — like any grown-up would — they simply experience it all , as a whole . And it’s joyful. It’s almost — kind of… uh…, ancient , somehow. You know? Primal .

But woah there a moment…

Time Out !

Because what are these parents even thinking , bringing their kids along? What kind of fucked-up message is this depraved tableau sending out to them? ‘Hector, get little Fifi’s coat on. We’re going to a public starving — And tomorrow? A man is devoured by a python. Friday? Public fucking execution.’

That’s wrong, man. That’s really wrong).

Anyhow, the parallels (at this juncture) are fairly overwhelming. I’d quote you the entire relevant section from the story if I could, but remember that bored SOB in the copyright department of that Big-Ass publishers in Swindon? Remember him? Yeah .