sky. I am befriending solitude. It scared me at first, but slowly I have started to feel as if I can breathe and no-one will take that breath away.’
‘How old are you, Wilson James?’
‘I am forty-seven,’ he said.
‘Have you mastered many things?’
‘No. Perhaps nothing. In forty-seven years I have written one good novel, two bad novels and one novel everyone seemed to think was brilliant. The good novel followed the brilliant novel and then the two bad ones followed that. The manuscript I wrote last year hasn’t even found a publisher. My own just shook her head. And what was worse was I couldn’t see it was bad and I had no idea how to fix it. None of the greats grew worse over the years—their books got better. Not mine. It’s enough to make any publisher, and my agent, very nervous. “Wilson James is the great un-read. People think they ought to own his books but they can’t bear to read them because they’re just awful.” That’s what one reviewer said about me. I’ve become a critic’s expression when a novelist pulls off a good second or third novel—“So and so has proved he’s not suffering from the James effect.” The James effect? You see, in some ways it’s worse to fail later than earlier because people have expectations. They pay good money. And then if you let them down they’re not kind. I had a neighbour stop me in the street and say, “I read Narcissus Lives and it made me very sad.” And I knew it wasn’t the book that made him sad, but my failure. When you’ve written well and then you go into decline, it’s as if you haven’t been trying hard enough. As if the muse has run off, appalled at your inadequacy.’
‘Have you always been alone, Wilson James?’
‘No, surprisingly, I’ve been married twice.’ He smiled with the merest lift of his mouth. ‘My second wife left me after an interview that went horribly wrong was published in a magazine. I’m afraid that I am about to find that my best living, and my best writing, is done. That there is an awful stretch of loneliness ahead of me. That I will live always with a sense of a life missed or avoided. That, after all, I had no real or lasting ability at anything. That it was all something wishful.’
‘Perhaps,’ I said.
‘No comfort,’ he said.
I had written no books. I had tended the river and I had never wondered for how long I would do these things. But I wondered then.
He looked far off across the lake. His lips were a steady line marking two shallow hills. His nose was sculpted to suit him. His teeth were white when he smiled and the hairs that grew on his chest sprang up grey and white and brown over the fabric of his shirt.
On the surface of the lake a ring appeared, and another, and beneath its surface I saw the flash of a fish as it rolled.
Wilson James said, ‘It’s as if I was swimming— for forty-seven years—and then suddenly one day I looked up and saw that I was swimming and that took all the joy out of it.’
‘You don’t like to swim?’
‘It’s all I know how to do and I am tired of it.’
‘Of swimming?
‘Of being. I think of just being.’
‘I like to swim,’ I said. ‘It’s what I love to do.’
‘In the lake? It’s freezing. When do you swim?’
‘At night.’
‘That I have to see.’
‘No,’ I said.
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Will you swim today?’ asked Wilson James.
‘Later,’ I said.
‘I will wait on the riverbank until you appear.’
‘Then you will be bitten by many mosquitoes,’ I said.
‘Shall we walk back together?’ laughed Wilson James.
‘Until the next lake I will walk by the river with you,’ I said.
When we parted company and he went on along the path he said, ‘I am running low on supplies. I’ll be gone a couple of days. I’m happy to get anything you need.’
Father had brought tools for the house from the town I had never seen. Father said town was full of things people needed. He said once you started needing things
‘How old are you, Wilson James?’
‘I am forty-seven,’ he said.
‘Have you mastered many things?’
‘No. Perhaps nothing. In forty-seven years I have written one good novel, two bad novels and one novel everyone seemed to think was brilliant. The good novel followed the brilliant novel and then the two bad ones followed that. The manuscript I wrote last year hasn’t even found a publisher. My own just shook her head. And what was worse was I couldn’t see it was bad and I had no idea how to fix it. None of the greats grew worse over the years—their books got better. Not mine. It’s enough to make any publisher, and my agent, very nervous. “Wilson James is the great un-read. People think they ought to own his books but they can’t bear to read them because they’re just awful.” That’s what one reviewer said about me. I’ve become a critic’s expression when a novelist pulls off a good second or third novel—“So and so has proved he’s not suffering from the James effect.” The James effect? You see, in some ways it’s worse to fail later than earlier because people have expectations. They pay good money. And then if you let them down they’re not kind. I had a neighbour stop me in the street and say, “I read Narcissus Lives and it made me very sad.” And I knew it wasn’t the book that made him sad, but my failure. When you’ve written well and then you go into decline, it’s as if you haven’t been trying hard enough. As if the muse has run off, appalled at your inadequacy.’
‘Have you always been alone, Wilson James?’
‘No, surprisingly, I’ve been married twice.’ He smiled with the merest lift of his mouth. ‘My second wife left me after an interview that went horribly wrong was published in a magazine. I’m afraid that I am about to find that my best living, and my best writing, is done. That there is an awful stretch of loneliness ahead of me. That I will live always with a sense of a life missed or avoided. That, after all, I had no real or lasting ability at anything. That it was all something wishful.’
‘Perhaps,’ I said.
‘No comfort,’ he said.
I had written no books. I had tended the river and I had never wondered for how long I would do these things. But I wondered then.
He looked far off across the lake. His lips were a steady line marking two shallow hills. His nose was sculpted to suit him. His teeth were white when he smiled and the hairs that grew on his chest sprang up grey and white and brown over the fabric of his shirt.
On the surface of the lake a ring appeared, and another, and beneath its surface I saw the flash of a fish as it rolled.
Wilson James said, ‘It’s as if I was swimming— for forty-seven years—and then suddenly one day I looked up and saw that I was swimming and that took all the joy out of it.’
‘You don’t like to swim?’
‘It’s all I know how to do and I am tired of it.’
‘Of swimming?
‘Of being. I think of just being.’
‘I like to swim,’ I said. ‘It’s what I love to do.’
‘In the lake? It’s freezing. When do you swim?’
‘At night.’
‘That I have to see.’
‘No,’ I said.
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Will you swim today?’ asked Wilson James.
‘Later,’ I said.
‘I will wait on the riverbank until you appear.’
‘Then you will be bitten by many mosquitoes,’ I said.
‘Shall we walk back together?’ laughed Wilson James.
‘Until the next lake I will walk by the river with you,’ I said.
When we parted company and he went on along the path he said, ‘I am running low on supplies. I’ll be gone a couple of days. I’m happy to get anything you need.’
Father had brought tools for the house from the town I had never seen. Father said town was full of things people needed. He said once you started needing things
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