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complicity, Fanon wrote and acted with a conjunction that is both rare
and eloquent. One may disagree with his analysis but one cannot hide
from his anger without hiding from the conscience that preserves the
memory of a better world.
.
Irene
l.
Gendzier
THE
BURGESS
MEMORANDUM
TREMOR OF INTENT. By Anthony Burgess. W. W. Norton. $4.95.
Anthony Burgess' new novel, his sixteenth, is advertised as a
"levels" book with something for everybody, from the fellow who thinks
of himself as enjoying spoofs on James Bond, to the responsible inter–
nationalist who wonders what the Cold War really means and fancies
that novels will tell him about it, to, on the deepest level, the really
thoughtful type for whom is provided an eschatological thesis, some
meaty stuff about ultimate realities. Burgess served notice that such
matters were to his concern when in a
T LS
discussion of the novel and
religious experience, he came out for "the imaginative analysis of themes
of sainthood, sin, the eschatological sanctions of behaviour, even that
dangerous beatific vision." The list comes as no surprise to anyone who
has read any of the previous sixteen novels in which secular heroes are
usually taken, or take themselves, to task. Adultery and self-pity
(The
Long Day Wanes);
pharisaical superiority to the herd
(The Right to
an Answer);
alcoholic and sexual confusions
(Honey for the Bears);
all receive their appropriate comeuppances. And when in the final pages
of
Tremor of Intent
ex-secret agent Denis Hillier turns out to be Father
Hillier whose final word is the "Amen" which closes the novel (stern
epigraphs from Auden and Eliot opened it), we may indeed feel in the
presence of that Type of the Wise who soars but never roams, the
Catholic Satirist. This does not seem a particularly new or exciting
thing to be in the presence of.
But let us distinguish a bit. Burgess involves himself-through the
exigencies of his style-in every tangle, mess or humiliation with which his
hero is confronted. The novelist has no tie to do some behind-the-scenes
smirking at his puppets if he really cares about how they move, if he ver–
bally submits himself to them. These are perhaps feeble metaphors for
Burgess' theatrical direction, but there are all kinds of directors and
this one is married to his cast. Even bit players would tip their hats to an
author who confers on them momentary splendor while behaving toward
