Nicola Barker - Clear: A Transparent Novel

I couldnt even begin to tell you why, exactly, but my head was suddenly buzzing with the opening few lines of Jack Schaefers Shane (his Classic Novel of the American West. Remember?). I was thinking how incredibly precise those first lines were, and yet how crazily effortless they seemed; Schaefers style (hisahemvoice), so enviably understated, his artistic (if I may be so bold as to use this word, and so early in our acquaintance) vision so totally (and I mean totally) unflinching.

I have huge balls.

Thats what the texts shouting:

I have huge balls, dya hear me? I have huge fucking balls, and I love them, and I have nothing else to prove here.

The rest- as they say- is all gravy.

Because lets face it, when youve got balls that size, you automatically develop a strange kind of moral authority, a gung-ho-ness (for want of a better word), a special intellectual certainty, which is very, very seductive to all those tight-arsed and covetous Princess-Tiny-Meats out there (the Little-Balls, and the No-Balls-Good God, lets not forget about them, eh?).

I dont make the rules, okay? Im just a dispassionate observer of the Human Animal. If you feel the urge to argue this point (youre at perfect liberty to do so), then why not write a detailed letter to Ms Germaine Greer? (Thats it, love, you run off and fetch your nice, green biroYeah. And Im sure shed just love to read it, once shes finally finished rimming that gorgeous teenager)

Schaefer (to get back to my point), as a writer, simply jumps, feet-first, straight into the guts of the thing.

If I might justuhquote something, to try and illustrate (and this is entirely from memory, so bear with me)

He rode into our Valley in the summer of 89. I was just a kid back then, barely as tall as our perimeter fence

Yes. So thats a really (Ouch, noI mean a really) rough approximation of the original (I cant find my copy. And dont sue me, Jack, if youre still alive and misquotation is the one thing that keeps you up at night. Or- worse still- if youre some crusty bastard working in the copyright department of some big-ass publishers in Swindon who just loves to get his rocks off prosecuting over this kind of harmless, well-meaning shite: its meant to be a tribute to the man, so will you maybe just cut me a little slack here?).

Its a rough approximation (as I believe I already emphasised), but Im sure you get the gist of the thing

Lets cut it right back to the bone then, shall we?

He. Yeah? The first word: He. Thats him. Thats Shane: The Man.

Just a single, short breath into the narrative, and already hes here. Hes arrived. Its Shane. Hes standing right in front of us: completely (quite astonishingly) dimensional.

And in the second breath? (If you can just try and suppress your excitement for a minute.) In that second breath hesOh. My. God. Hes coming even closer.

WAH!

Hes almost on top of you now (Smell the warm leather of his chaps the sweat on his horse the grease in his gun-holster).

Uh, lets rewind for a moment: the second word (second word, right?) is rode. He rodeHe rode(just in case some of you werent keeping up).

He rode into our valley

He rode

And there you have it. In just two, short, superficially insignificant words, A Hero Is Born.

God.

Its so fucking humbling.

Please (pretty please) dont let me harp on too long about all of this (because I will harp. Harpings my trademark) but what absolutely immaculate styling, eh?

(Give the man credit for it why dont you?

Schaefer?

Stand up and take a bow!

Schaefer?

Wow. Hes certainly getting on a little now, isnt he?

Anduhhes kind of wobbly on his

Whoops!

Can he?

Would you mind?

Oh.

Is that his secretary, just next to him there?

Could she maybe? Yeah?

Well thatsthats good. GreatUh

Hup!

Wowsa.

Phew!

Steady. Steady

Aw.

Just look at the old doglook at him! lapping it all up.

And the audience?

On their feet. Waving their bic lighters, singeing their thumbnails. Stamping their feet. In a state of complete bloody ecstasy, and all because of just two simple words. Thats two. Count em.)

You cant learn that stuff. No way. Its born (Im serious. I should know). And you can call me naive (if you like. Im man enough to take it), but Im not seeing Schaefer (in my minds eye), his head tilted on one side, his mouth gently gaping, his pencil cocked, taking detailed notes on structure or the use of metaphor at some cruddy creative writing seminar in some embarrassing further education college in the American Mid-West circa 1947. (Fuck off!)

Because this is no-frills writing at its very best. This is am-it, lived-it stuff. Shane (yeah, remember him? He? He rode?) is the first person Schaefer mentions in the book; the first syllable, no less. And if Ive got this right (and Im fairly sure that I haveOkay, bollocks, I know I have), then hes also the last. Hes the last syllable.

(Cue music for The Twilight Zone.)

It cant be an accident! It just cant.

The novel ends on his name (this time, though, Shane is leaving, not arriving). The whole narrative essentially resounds to the rhythm of his name:

Shhhh-aaay-yne (Yeah. I think that works better phonetically, for some reason).

Please notethe secret poets among you, especially- that perfect hush in the first part of the wordShhhh! Be quiet! Someone important owns this name! Pay attention! Shhhh!

(Okay, so maybe Im starting to over-egg this thing a little.)

But the name definitely chimes. Its almost as though the book (that heavy weight in your left hand the pages read and no weight at all in your right, because its over: the journey is travelled, its done) is just this great, big, old grandfather clock, striking for all its worth. This huge, sonorous bell:

And he was Shane.

(Thats the last line.)

Boinggg!

I mean Ka-fucking-Pow or what?!

Im actually laughing out loud. I swear to God (sad bastard? Me? Wont bother denying it). Because I am putty literally putty- in Schaefers hands. And I love his hands (Calm down. Theres nothing even remotely unmanly about it). I just love this feeling. I do. To be manipulated, to be led, to be played, and so artfully. Its justIm justIm very, very happy to be a part of that process. Because you cant beat that sensation (so you might as well join it, eh?).

Bottom line: Schaefers just owning that shit. (Man, youve got to own your shit. Fact.)

So maybe I think about Shane a little too much, sometimes. And maybe Im prone to overanalysing everything, but then life is in the details, as they say (they in this particular instance being the Special Features Writer in a copy of