Engleby: A Novel - Hardcover

Faulks, Sebastian

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0385524056 ISBN 13: 9780385524056

Publisher: Doubleday, 2007

Synopsis

Bestselling British author Sebastian Faulks reinvents the unreliable narrator with his singular, haunting creation—Mike Engleby.

"My name is Mike Engleby, and I'm in my second year at an ancient university."

With that brief introduction we meet one of the most mesmerizing, singular voices in a long tradition of disturbing narrators. Despite his obvious intelligence and compelling voice, it is clear that something about solitary, odd Mike is not quite right. When he becomes fixated on a classmate named Jennifer Arkland and she goes missing, we are left with the looming question: Is Mike Engleby involved? As he grows up, finding a job and even a girlfriend in London, Mike only becomes more and more detached from those around him in an almost anti-coming-of-age. His inability to relate to others and his undependable memory (able to recall countless lines of text yet sometimes incapable of summoning up his own experiences from mere days before) lead the reader down an unclear and often darkly humorous path where one is never completely comfortable or confident about what is true.

Mike Engleby is a chilling and unforgettable character, and Engleby is a novel that will surprise and beguile Sebastian Faulks' readership.

About this title

About the Author

Sebastian Faulks worked as a journalist for fourteen years before taking up writing full-time in 1991. In 1995 he was voted Author of the Year by the British Book Awards for Birdsong, his fourth novel and his second, following A Fool's Alphabet, to be published in the United States. He is also the author of Human Traces, On Green Dolphin Street, Charlotte Gray, The Fatal Englishman, and The Girl at the Lion d’Or. He lives in London with his wife and three children.

Reviews

Reviewed by Michael Collins

Sebastian Faulks's brilliant new novel, Engleby, seems like a page torn from Camus, updated with a slew of scientific arguments questioning the very concept of selfhood. The edgy narrator, Mike Engleby, suffers bouts of memory loss and tells us up front that he might or might not have committed the brutal murder of his classmate Jennifer Arkland. He does not know for sure, but he is fixated on her.

Beware: Engleby is no ordinary whodunit. Faulks seems intent on bigger game in this psychologically and philosophically disturbing story. With artistry and skill, he turns a would-be murder mystery into a meditation on consciousness.

Early on in the novel, Engleby, a student of no small merit, switches out of English into the natural sciences, telling us, "I don't miss English at all. No one explained what we were meant to do." He is that near-anomaly, a man of letters in a world of science. As the plot develops, he struggles to define himself as he comes under police scrutiny.

Engleby's sense of estrangement from his peers seems rooted in being demeaned, bullied and tortured as a scholarship student from a working-class background, first at Wellington and then at Cambridge. He acquired the nickname "Toilet" after asking to be excused from class one day to go to the bathroom. The relentless taunting he endured went a long way toward creating his mordant sense of psychotic aloneness.

Most of the novel is set in the 1980s, and the voice in which Engleby narrates it can sound both shrill and estranged. With characteristic directness, he confesses, "The Churches, above all. Their emptiness. God has been to Earth -- and gone away. That did occasionally make me feel lonely." At other times, he relies on scientific metaphors. He speaks, for instance, of his sense of self as under threat by the "hostile otherness of my surroundings . . . such that my own personality was starting to disintegrate. I was vanishing. My character, my identity, had unraveled. I was a particle of fear."

This reduction of the self to atoms and molecules is not a mere conceit, but central to the notion of who or what we are. And in the mind of a disturbed murder suspect, this sense of examination takes on chilling portent: Are we a mere concoction of chemicals, as Engleby suggests? And if so, what does this do to our sense of morality and how we mete out justice? As the novel progresses, the leads in the Arkland case grow cold, and Faulks seems to abandon the murder plot. Indeed, Engleby tells us, "I haven't thought about Jennifer Arkland for years." Instead, we spend untold pages watching as Engleby becomes a journalist. This section seems rife with details from the author's own career, including interviews with British literary and political luminaries that sound like the sort of thing Faulks might have conducted himself. He ably depicts the social and emotional landscape of England in the 1980s, a country in transition as a new conservative government dismantles social programs. While interviewing Mrs. Thatcher, Engleby asks her if she has any regrets over the riots in Brixton, the miners' strike or the Falklands War. The prime minister replies by quoting St. Francis: "Too much looking back is a weariness to the soul." This dismissal of the past is an eerie and haunting sentiment for a murderer to consider.

The latter part of the novel includes a solicitor's legal brief, with a detailed review of psychiatric literature and an assessment of Engleby's psychosis. While confined to a mental institution, Engleby reflects on his life, summarizing current scientific theories and asserting, after almost 18 years in confinement, that "self is an illusion generated by the chemical activity of the brain; that there is no such thing as 'mind,' that there is only matter. . . . The idea of self has become a 'necessary fiction.' "

What is profoundly disturbing throughout the novel is Engleby's lack of remorse. He's caught up in a scientific theory that describes an arbitrary universe of mere molecules. One wonders, is this where the defense of defenseless acts will take us in the near future, to an indictment of atoms, and not the self, not the person?

Copyright 2007, The Washington Post. All Rights Reserved.

Starred Review. British bestseller Faulks's latest (after Human Traces) comprises the dark confessional of Mike Engleby, an intelligent but strange university student suspected in a woman's disappearance. His journal-like account of his life, which begins in the turbulent 1970s and extends to 2006, includes day-to-day accounts of college life, pontifications on time, politics and the nature of thought, and flashbacks to his childhood—particularly the years he spent as a scholarship student at the exclusive Chatfield, where he was taunted and abused by his classmates (they, among other things, called him Toilet). As the journal progresses, his obsession with university student Jennifer Arkland deepens: he reads her mail, sits in on her classes, joins her political society and becomes involved in her student film. When Jennifer disappears after a party and is presumed dead, Mike finds himself under police investigation. The case remains open for over a decade, and Mike continues on with his life, but Jen is never far from his thoughts, and as he continues to return in his mind to Jen's disappearance, he reveals more about that night and about himself. Though sometimes heavy with the tropes of self-deception and misdirection, this is a compelling psychological portrait of a man who is at once profoundly disturbed and wryly funny. (Sept.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

"I don't find life unbearably grave. I find it almost intolerably frivolous," says Brit Mike Engleby, the smart social misfit who narrates Faulks' new novel. The story follows Engleby through adolescence in the 1970s, when he's frequent fodder for bullies (the kind that put their victim's head in the toilet, then repeatedly flush). He fares a bit better at university, particularly after he makes the acquaintance of a lovely coed named Jennifer. Alas, romantic interest soon turns to obsession, and when Jennifer goes missing, Engleby becomes a suspect. The case remains unsolved for more than a dozen years, during which time Engleby finds a girlfriend and establishes himself as a journalist. When Jennifer's remains are finally discovered, memories begin to surface that make Engleby question whether he might have been responsible for the poor girl's demise. Faulks, the author of numerous well-received literary novels (including On Green Dolphin Street, 2002), renders luminous prose, but this time it gets lost amid a rambling tale told by a narcissist with little of consequence to say. A disappointment from a talented writer, but still of interest to Faulks' followers. Block, Allison

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

1


My name is Mike Engleby, and I’m in my second year at an ancient university. My college was founded in 1662, which means it’s viewed here as modern. Its chapel was designed by Hawksmoor, or possibly Wren; its gardens were laid out by someone else whose name is familiar. The choir stalls were carved by the only woodcarver you’ve ever heard of. The captain of the Boat Club won a gold medal at an international games last year. (I think he’s studying physical education.) The captain of cricket has played for Pakistan, though he talks like the Prince of Wales. The teachers, or “dons,” include three university professors, one of whom was on the radio recently talking about lizards. He’s known as the Iguanodon.

Tonight I won’t study in my room because there’s the weekly meeting of the Folk Club. Almost all the boys in my college go to this, not for the music, though it’s normally quite good, but because lots of girl students come here for the evening. The only boys who don’t go are those with a work compulsion, or the ones who think folk music died when Bob Dylan went electric.


***

There’s someone I’ve seen a few times, called Jennifer Arkland. I discovered her name because she stood for election to the committee of a society. On the posters, the candidates had small pictures of themselves and, under their names and colleges, a few personal details. Hers said: “Second–year History exhibitioner. Previously educated at Lymington High School and Sorbonne. Hobbies: music, dance, film–making, cooking. Would like to make the society more democratic with more women members and have more outings.”

I’d seen her in the tea room of the University Library, where she was usually with two other girls from her college, a fat one called Molly and a severe dark one, whose name I hadn’t caught. There was often Steve from Christ’s or Dave from Jesus sniffing round them.

I think I’ll join this society of hers. It doesn’t matter what it’s for because they’re all the same. They’re all called something Soc, short for Society. Lab Soc, Lit Soc, Geog Soc. There’s probably a knitting group called Sock Soc.

I’ll find out about Jen Soc, then go along so I can get to know her better.


I won a prize to come to my college and it pays my fees; my family’s poor. I took a train from school one day after I’d sat the exams and had been called for interview. I must have stayed in London on the way, but I have no memory of it. My memory’s odd like that. I'm big on detail, but there are holes in the fabric. I do remember that I took a bus from the station, though I didn’t know then what my college looked like. I went round the whole city and ended up back at the station, having made the round trip. Then I took a taxi and had to borrow some money from the porter to pay for it. I still had a pound note in my wallet for emergencies.

They gave me a key to a bedroom; it was in a courtyard that I reached by a tunnel under the road. I imagined what kind of student lived there normally. I pictured someone called Tony with a beard and a duffel coat. I tried really hard to like the room and the college that was going to be mine. I imagined bicycling off to lectures in the early morning with my books balanced on a rack over the back wheel. I'd be shouting out to the other guys, “See you there!” I’d probably smoke a pipe. I’d also probably have a girlfriend—some quite stern grammar school girl with glasses, who wouldn’t be to everyone’s taste.

In fact, I didn’t like the room I was in that night. It was damp, it was small and it felt as though too many people had been through it. It didn’t seem old enough; it didn’t seem 17th century, or modern: it was more like 1955. Also, there was no bathroom. I found one up the stairs. It was very cold and I had to stay dressed until the bath was run. The water itself was very hot. Everything in the room and on the stairs smelled slightly of gas, and lino.

I slept fine, but I didn't want to have breakfast in the dining hall because of having to talk to the other candidates. I went along the street and found a cafe and had weak coffee and a sausage roll, which I paid for from my spare pound. I re-entered the college by the main gate. The porter was sullen in his damp lodge with a paraffin heater. “G12, Dr. Woodrow’s rooms,” he said. I found it all right, and there was another boy waiting outside. He looked clever.

Eventually, the door opened and it was my turn. There were two of them in there: a big schoolmasterly man who showed me to a chair, then sat down at a desk; and a younger, thin man with a beard who didn't get up from his armchair. Teachers at my school didn’t have beards.

“You wrote well on Shakespeare. Do you visit the theatre a good deal?” This was the big one talking. It sounded too much like an ordinary conversation to be an interview. I suspected a trap. I told him there wasn’t a theatre where we lived, in Reading.

I was watching him all the time. How grand, to be a Doctor of whatever and to weigh up and decide people’s future. I’d once seen a set of table mats in a shop which had pictures of men in different academic gowns: Doctor of Divinity, Master of Arts and so on. But this was the first real one I'd seen. He asked me a few more things, none of them interesting.

"…the poetry of Eliot. Would you care to make a comparison between Eliot and Lawrence?"

This was the younger one, and it was his first contribution. I thought he must be joking. An American banker interested in the rhythms of the Anglican liturgy and a pitman's son who wanted to escape from Nottingham, maybe via sex, or by his crude paintings. Compare them? I looked at him carefully, but he showed no sign of humour so I gave an answer about their use of verse forms, trying to make it sound as though it had been a reasonable question. He nodded a few times and looked relieved. He didn't follow it up.

The big one leafed through my papers again. “Your personal report,”he said at last, “from your teacher…Did you have difficulties with him?”

I hadn't been aware of any, I said.

“Is there anything that you'd like to ask us about life in college? We try to make everyone feel welcome."

It seemed wrong not to ask something; it might look as though I didn't care. But I couldn't ask any of the things I really wanted to know. In the silence we heard the college clock chime the half-hour. I felt them both looking at me. Then I felt a trickle of sweat on my spine. I hardly ever sweat normally, and it gave me an idea.

“What's the thing with laundry?”

“What?" said the big one, gruffly.

“Do you have…Well, like, washing machines? Is it done centrally or do I take it somewhere or what?”

"Gerald?”

"I'm not quite sure," said the younger one.

“Each undergraduate is assigned a moral tutor,” said the schoolmasterly one. “A Fellow of the college who can help you with all your personal and health questions."

“So he'd be the one to ask?”

"Yes. Yes, I imagine so.”

I thought that now I'd broken the ice, it might be good to ask another question. "What about money?" I said.

“What?"

“How much money will I need?”

"I imagine your local authority will provide a grant. It's up to you how you spend it. Do you have questions about the work?"

“No. I read the prospectus.”

“Do you find the idea of Chaucer daunting?—

"No, I like Chaucer."

"Yes, yes, I can see that from your paper. Well, Mr. Engle . . . er…”

“Engleby.”

“Englebury. You can go now, unless…Gerald?"

“No, no.”

"Good. So we'll look forward to seeing you next autumn."
I didn't see how they could let me go without telling me how it had gone. "Have I won a prize?" I said.

"We shall be writing to your school in due course. When we've completed the interview process. It's an exceptional year."

I shook his offered hand, waved at the seated one and went out, down the oak stairs. What a pair of frauds.


In the evening I tear a ticket from a book and take it to the college dining hall, which was designed by Robert Adam. You have to buy a book of thirty-five every term; you don’t actually have to use them, but the cash you pay in advance keeps the kitchen going. I’m wearing a long black gown over my jeans and sweater and there are candles in sconces on the painted plaster walls. We stand up when a door behind the top table opens and the Fellows of the college come in to dine. The Master is an oceanographer, who once drew maps of undersea mountain ranges. He knows how Australia was once attached to China or how Ghana sweated in the foothills of the Andes. I think he imagines that New Zealand once broke free from Germany.

The crystal glasses glitter in the candlelight. They drink wine. We drink water, though you are allowed to ask for beer if you like. Stellings is the only man to do this.

“A pint of ale, please, Robinson,” he says to the stooping butler. “Beer for you, Mike?”

I shake my head. Stellings brews his own beer in a plastic barrel. He calls it SG (short for student's gin: drunk for a penny, dead drunk for twopence) and once forced me to drink it, even though it made me sick, with its powerful taste of malt and raw alcohol, which he achieves by doubling the sugar input recommended on the side of the kit. There is no bathroom near his room, so I had to vomit ...

Edition details

• Publisher: Doubleday
• Publication date: 2007
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0385524056
• ISBN 13: 9780385524056
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 336