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Authors: Nicholas Searle
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however inexact.’
Stephen grins ruefully; he cannot help it, though he knows it will
irritate Gerald further. ‘I’m not explaining myself very well, am I?’
he says.
‘Not particularly, no. But carry on.’
‘What I mean is the process of finding out absolutely everything
about him. It’s the logging and the noting with painstaking care.
This is the first time I’ve ever been involved in such an extensive project about one person. So intense and detailed, getting so close in.’
‘The proximity. Yes, I believe you mentioned,’ says Gerald drily.
‘It’s the methodical nature of it. Dissecting him into his constituent parts and laying them out neatly under the lights on the
examining table, all stainless steel and clean. They don’t seem to fit together. They don’t seem to be part of him.’
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‘That, though, is the job of the researcher. You must surely real-
ize that? Not to rely on assumptions or theories or accepted truths.
To go back to original sources and to come up with an amalgam of
the facts that better approximates the truth.’
Stephen notes the steel in Gerald’s eyes, the sense of purpose
that could have seen him, with different choices, as a captain of
industry or a prominent politician rather than what he is. He recognizes that he possesses none of that backbone. It is backbone that
the subject of his research also possesses in abundance. He perse-
veres for the moment, however.
‘But it seems the closer I get and the more detail I gather, the less I know.’
‘Isn’t that rather, if I may say so, a rather workaday observation?’
says Gerald, striving, it seems, for equanimity. ‘The myopia that
closeness can induce, the lack of perspective. Isn’t it just part of the job to alternate between the microscopic and the strategic?’
Part of my job, that’s what you mean, thinks Stephen, and he can
see Gerald’s rising annoyance.
Gerald wraps a delicate hand around the cafetière, flexing his
long fingers, and evidently finds the coffee is still warm enough to pour himself a second cup.
‘Of course,’ he says eventually with a small smile, ‘this could
simply be a rather unsubtle ruse on your part to divert our session and disguise a certain lack of progress.’ And, more gently: ‘Let’s just see what you have laid out on your examining table so far and
whether we will be able to make something coherent from its parts.
We did, after all, start out with rather a lot of material. What form will Frankenstein’s monster take?’
They sit together at the large table in Gerald’s study, illuminated by strategically placed lamps. A masculine room, thinks Stephen,
though designed with an aesthetic touch. Gerald is keen to project
the face of the high- minded academic, but Stephen knows he cares
for appearance and impression.
Stephen lays out his papers carefully, the bundles from his
briefcase transforming them into little piles of facsimiles of ori-
ginal documents, printed commentaries, typescript and his latest
47
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05/05/15 5:32 PM
handwritten rushes. The piles represent decades of his subject’s life, an existence desiccated into dead words on cheap paper. Dotted
around the table, they form an irregular oblong; and in the centre, on the polished rosewood, is where Stephen looks in vain for the
sum of the parts. Where is he? he thinks. He eludes me still.
‘Now then,’ says Gerald not unkindly, ‘where shall we begin?’
Stephen is mildly irritated at Gerald’s didactic tone but says
self- deprecatingly, ‘I find it confusing. He seems all things to all men at different times; and at the same time several different people in one soul.’
‘Aren’t we all? Is any of us the epitome of consistency, exactitude and disclosure? Don’t worry about the jaggedness. It’s in the cracks that we’ll find something original to say. Just focus on
Stephen grins ruefully; he cannot help it, though he knows it will
irritate Gerald further. ‘I’m not explaining myself very well, am I?’
he says.
‘Not particularly, no. But carry on.’
‘What I mean is the process of finding out absolutely everything
about him. It’s the logging and the noting with painstaking care.
This is the first time I’ve ever been involved in such an extensive project about one person. So intense and detailed, getting so close in.’
‘The proximity. Yes, I believe you mentioned,’ says Gerald drily.
‘It’s the methodical nature of it. Dissecting him into his constituent parts and laying them out neatly under the lights on the
examining table, all stainless steel and clean. They don’t seem to fit together. They don’t seem to be part of him.’
46
1ST_9780241206935_TheGoodLiar.indd 46
05/05/15 5:32 PM
‘That, though, is the job of the researcher. You must surely real-
ize that? Not to rely on assumptions or theories or accepted truths.
To go back to original sources and to come up with an amalgam of
the facts that better approximates the truth.’
Stephen notes the steel in Gerald’s eyes, the sense of purpose
that could have seen him, with different choices, as a captain of
industry or a prominent politician rather than what he is. He recognizes that he possesses none of that backbone. It is backbone that
the subject of his research also possesses in abundance. He perse-
veres for the moment, however.
‘But it seems the closer I get and the more detail I gather, the less I know.’
‘Isn’t that rather, if I may say so, a rather workaday observation?’
says Gerald, striving, it seems, for equanimity. ‘The myopia that
closeness can induce, the lack of perspective. Isn’t it just part of the job to alternate between the microscopic and the strategic?’
Part of my job, that’s what you mean, thinks Stephen, and he can
see Gerald’s rising annoyance.
Gerald wraps a delicate hand around the cafetière, flexing his
long fingers, and evidently finds the coffee is still warm enough to pour himself a second cup.
‘Of course,’ he says eventually with a small smile, ‘this could
simply be a rather unsubtle ruse on your part to divert our session and disguise a certain lack of progress.’ And, more gently: ‘Let’s just see what you have laid out on your examining table so far and
whether we will be able to make something coherent from its parts.
We did, after all, start out with rather a lot of material. What form will Frankenstein’s monster take?’
They sit together at the large table in Gerald’s study, illuminated by strategically placed lamps. A masculine room, thinks Stephen,
though designed with an aesthetic touch. Gerald is keen to project
the face of the high- minded academic, but Stephen knows he cares
for appearance and impression.
Stephen lays out his papers carefully, the bundles from his
briefcase transforming them into little piles of facsimiles of ori-
ginal documents, printed commentaries, typescript and his latest
47
1ST_9780241206935_TheGoodLiar.indd 47
05/05/15 5:32 PM
handwritten rushes. The piles represent decades of his subject’s life, an existence desiccated into dead words on cheap paper. Dotted
around the table, they form an irregular oblong; and in the centre, on the polished rosewood, is where Stephen looks in vain for the
sum of the parts. Where is he? he thinks. He eludes me still.
‘Now then,’ says Gerald not unkindly, ‘where shall we begin?’
Stephen is mildly irritated at Gerald’s didactic tone but says
self- deprecatingly, ‘I find it confusing. He seems all things to all men at different times; and at the same time several different people in one soul.’
‘Aren’t we all? Is any of us the epitome of consistency, exactitude and disclosure? Don’t worry about the jaggedness. It’s in the cracks that we’ll find something original to say. Just focus on
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