Read Online I Hate Martin Amis et al. by Peter Barry - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter Barry
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the troglodytes of war, wrapped in rags, huddled over candles or kerosene stoves, shrinking back into the shadows whenever a sniper passes by on his way to a new eyrie.
At ground level thereâs only dust and rubble. Doors have been removed, probably for firewood. The walls are chipped, the paint flaking, and graffiti, spidery black and uninspired, crawls at random across every surface. The rooms have been stripped bare. I sit well back from the windows on an old mattress I found downstairs. I prize it, my only possession, my only shred of domesticity. Why wasnât it removed, along with everything else? I think someone must have salvaged it for themselves, and then was forced to flee and leave it behind. Maybe they were killed in the street when they went out to get a loaf of bread or a container of water. Itâs more than likely.
Itâs important I write these notes or observations (call them what you will) as if Iâm writing them for me. (But note the âyouâ in that sentence, sneaking in, unheralded, unwanted. Is it simply a figure of speech, or is it in fact some nameless reader I already have in the back of my mind?) I donât want to have a reader sitting in front of me, influencing what I write. Theyâve spurned me in the past, so why should I bother with them now? When I wrote my last novel I had a reader in front of me. He was a creation, as fictional as my novel, but real nevertheless. He was my ideal audience and, when I was writing Iâd ask myself, how will he take this, what will he make of that piece of news, will such and such be of interest to him? This is normal, I believe. But now I donât want him. Itâs too constraining to have a reader in front of you all the time. Itâs like a guard dog, watching your every movement with a critical eye, barking whenever heâs displeased, whining when he wants something he hasnât received, attacking you should you wander off his favoured path. I want to be free, to write only for myself â if thatâs possible. Can putting a word down on a piece of paper ever be just for oneself? I could argue that Iâm keeping this journal now in order to remind myself of these incidents in my life later. But if itâs not a strict reminder note â Go to the shops and buy some butter â then surely those words are for someone else? Ultimately.
I notice a certain reluctance on my part to pick up my rifle, my Steyr SSG. Is note taking my excuse, or is it because of the fiasco with the publisherâs reader? Although I came to Sarajevo to be a sniper, Iâm already wondering if I can get by with just talking to people and listening. But how long would it be before Santo and the others realised I was a fake? So I dutifully go through the motions, crouching by a window, rifle at the ready, staring across the river at the deserted city, half hoping no one will appear. But this afternoon someone did.
A man walked onto the bridge that crosses the Miljacka River just to the west of the Skenderija sports centre. Itâs the bridge where the first person, a female student, was shot dead in the war, in 1992. The bridge has iron railings and narrow pavements on either side, with cobblestones in the centre. On the far bank is a building that appears to have been skinned alive by bullets and mortars, most of the red brickwork, like raw bleeding flesh, now clearly visible. Behind it are the ruins of the Parliament.
This man strolled onto the bridge as if he had all the time in the world. Having spent a couple of days watching people run everywhere, even when they were carrying containers of water or baskets of food, such behaviour struck me as unusual. It was noticeable because it was different. He was so calm and relaxed he could have been taking a stroll in Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon. He was probably one of the suicidal ones Santo had told me about, those who stroll along the pavements of Sarajevo as if
At ground level thereâs only dust and rubble. Doors have been removed, probably for firewood. The walls are chipped, the paint flaking, and graffiti, spidery black and uninspired, crawls at random across every surface. The rooms have been stripped bare. I sit well back from the windows on an old mattress I found downstairs. I prize it, my only possession, my only shred of domesticity. Why wasnât it removed, along with everything else? I think someone must have salvaged it for themselves, and then was forced to flee and leave it behind. Maybe they were killed in the street when they went out to get a loaf of bread or a container of water. Itâs more than likely.
Itâs important I write these notes or observations (call them what you will) as if Iâm writing them for me. (But note the âyouâ in that sentence, sneaking in, unheralded, unwanted. Is it simply a figure of speech, or is it in fact some nameless reader I already have in the back of my mind?) I donât want to have a reader sitting in front of me, influencing what I write. Theyâve spurned me in the past, so why should I bother with them now? When I wrote my last novel I had a reader in front of me. He was a creation, as fictional as my novel, but real nevertheless. He was my ideal audience and, when I was writing Iâd ask myself, how will he take this, what will he make of that piece of news, will such and such be of interest to him? This is normal, I believe. But now I donât want him. Itâs too constraining to have a reader in front of you all the time. Itâs like a guard dog, watching your every movement with a critical eye, barking whenever heâs displeased, whining when he wants something he hasnât received, attacking you should you wander off his favoured path. I want to be free, to write only for myself â if thatâs possible. Can putting a word down on a piece of paper ever be just for oneself? I could argue that Iâm keeping this journal now in order to remind myself of these incidents in my life later. But if itâs not a strict reminder note â Go to the shops and buy some butter â then surely those words are for someone else? Ultimately.
I notice a certain reluctance on my part to pick up my rifle, my Steyr SSG. Is note taking my excuse, or is it because of the fiasco with the publisherâs reader? Although I came to Sarajevo to be a sniper, Iâm already wondering if I can get by with just talking to people and listening. But how long would it be before Santo and the others realised I was a fake? So I dutifully go through the motions, crouching by a window, rifle at the ready, staring across the river at the deserted city, half hoping no one will appear. But this afternoon someone did.
A man walked onto the bridge that crosses the Miljacka River just to the west of the Skenderija sports centre. Itâs the bridge where the first person, a female student, was shot dead in the war, in 1992. The bridge has iron railings and narrow pavements on either side, with cobblestones in the centre. On the far bank is a building that appears to have been skinned alive by bullets and mortars, most of the red brickwork, like raw bleeding flesh, now clearly visible. Behind it are the ruins of the Parliament.
This man strolled onto the bridge as if he had all the time in the world. Having spent a couple of days watching people run everywhere, even when they were carrying containers of water or baskets of food, such behaviour struck me as unusual. It was noticeable because it was different. He was so calm and relaxed he could have been taking a stroll in Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon. He was probably one of the suicidal ones Santo had told me about, those who stroll along the pavements of Sarajevo as if
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