Spill Simmer Falter Wither by Sara Baume
November 26, 2015 § 2 Comments
I started reading Sara Baume’s debut novel immediately after I finished André Alexis’s Giller-winning Fifteen Dogs. I’d forgotten that Spill Simmer Falter Wither was a dog book, and I groaned out loud when I saw the dog on the front cover. But I’d picked the novel up on the basis of Eric Karl Anderson’s review, David Hebblethwaite’s review, and Michael Caines’ TLS blog post about six books by women that could have made an alternative Goldsmiths Prize shortlist (I also have Pond and Don’t Try This At Home to read). So despite the dog I was prepared to give it a chance. It wasn’t that I didn’t like the Alexis book, exactly, more that I felt I’d read too many similar things, even though I haven’t at all, and even though his book was cleverly done. I guess I’m just one of those snobbish readers that thinks books with animal characters are for children, although I can’t actually remember liking them even then. I don’t have, for example, especially fond memories of The Wind in the Willows or Watership Down. My limit for animal books was probably Beatrix Potter—less philosophy, perhaps.
Anyway, Baume’s novel is the tale of a lonely man who adopts a dog—not some friendly labrador or bouncy golden retriever, but a mutt who is frankly impossible to have around children or other dogs—even the man at the shelter calls him a“vicious little bugger.” The man, Ray, is fifty-seven (“too old for starting over, too young for giving up”) and his father has recently died. He’s more or less entirely socially incompetent in the way that Anakana Schofield’s Martin John is, except in this case it’s the father rather than the mother that has dominated for too long (and our man here has much less agency that Martin John—is, in fact, entirely under his father’s emotional control).
The book travels through the four seasons (spill, simmer, etc.) with the narrator plodding on through his sad and rather pitiful existence:
Everywhere I go it’s as though I’m wearing a shiny spacesuit which buffers me from other people. A big, shiny one-piece which obscures how small and dull I feel inside. I know that you can’t see it; I can’t see it either, but when I pitch and clump and flail down the street, grown men step into the drain gully to avoid brushing against my invisible spacesuit. When I queue to pay at a supermarket checkout, the cashier presses the backup bell and takes her toilet break. When I drive past a children’s playground, some au-pair nearly always makes a mental notes of my registration number. 93-OY-5731. They all think I don’t notice. But I do.
Tension mounts when the dog, One Eye, attacks another dog and possibly a small boy. Complaints are made, and the narrator finds himself living in his car for weeks on end to avoid having the dog removed by the authorities. The book is, in essence, a love letter to One Eye, the safe recipient of a love that has had almost nowhere else to go for Ray’s entire life. For all this, the novel admirably avoids sentimentality.
Spill had some things I like in a novel as well as some that I don’t, but, interestingly, these preferences (or prejudices) were somewhat upended by this book. First, there’s description—lots and lots of description. Normally I skip over description of places. It bores me. But Baume’s language is fresh and vital (“He’s a triangular men. Loafy shoulders tapering into flagpole legs, the silhouette of a root vegetable”), with some wonderful verbs (“There are cherry trees lining the roadway in full flower, spitting tiny pink pinches of themselves into the traffic”, and kept me reading throughout. On the other hand, plot, something I can usually take or leave, was in slightly too short supply for me in this book. I’m normally quite happy for a novel to meander around inside a character’s head without making any outward linear progress, but with this book the stasis of being on the road (no destination, same thing day in, day out) was not compensated for by enough interiority. Ray withholds almost all the details of his life until the shocking later stages of the book, but unlike in Rachel Cusk’s Outline, another book of narratorly secrecy, we don’t discover anything about other people either.
Although Spill Simmer Falter Wither won’t make my top ten of 2015, it’s a beautifully written book and an impressive debut. Sara Baume is definitely a writer to watch.