I am a big fan of metafiction. Every time I realise I’m going to be reading a book where the author’s workings are not hidden away but left there in full view I’m delighted. And I’m especially pleased when the book deals with the process of writing which this one does. There is little or nothing of a plot. The main protagonist is simply known as “the narrator” who thinks he knows what his role in the proceedings is; only the presence of “[h]e who calls the shots” is lacking and so the narrator is left to his own devices. Needless to say without proper guidance the storyline ends up tied in knots. Towards the end of the book a telephone starts ringing:The narrator finds some scissors and cuts the cord. For a short time he basks in the silence, in which can be heard the soporific buzzing of flies, one, two, three of them, describing hopeless circles beneath the chandelier. But the cut cord is not enough to silence the stubborn ringing of the phone. Eventually he realises who must be calling:The voice at the other end of the line informs the narrator dryly of his dissatisfaction, supposedly arising from the fact that up to this point there have been nothing but muddled descriptions of scenery, presented moreover from the wrong side: not from the front but from behind, without the slightest effort to conceal the joins between wood and pasteboard, the running paint, the drab canvas, the braces made from untreated beams that shore up the structure. Who cares if the world exists? Let it look as if it does. The deceptive impression of reality – that is what is expected of the narrator by his taskmaster. A story, like anything else, ought to flow smoothly from beginning to end, never once straying from its course. A cameo by a work’s creator is nothing new—Spike Milligan did it in Puckoon and Woody Allen did it in his play God—but this particular author has clearly being expecting too much from his narrator. He, for example, berates the narrator about the lack of an ending:Omitting that final scene was an unpardonable blunder, shouts the voice. But he included what happened in the garden, the narrator tries to interject; he didn’t omit a thing! He suddenly realizes with astonishment that his interlocutor, so self-assured in his authority, is hopelessly misinformed. He missed the ending; a critical episode escaped his notice. And so it was his inattention that brought about the confusion. Story lines got mixed up. That’s why they are now proceeding unchecked through train station and bar, headed goodness knows where. Any author out there, especially one who’s had his story take on a life of its own and get away from him, will appreciate this novel. The book begins:The creation of worlds! nothing could be simpler. Apparently they can be conjured out of thin airYes they can but there’s nothing simple about it. It only looks that way. After numerous revisions and all kinds of editing and proofreading most books look as if they could’ve been rattled off over a long weekend. Non-writers will have their eyes opened when they read this. Surely writing isn’t nearly as hard as its being presented here. Most won’t have a clue what poststructuralism is or care but even if they’ve only seen the cartoon version of Alice in Wonderland as a kid something at the back of their head will connect with the nightmarish landscape the narrator inhabits. One moment he’s in a hotel, the next in a station or dressed up as a clown in a circus ring. He’s trapped in a world that has its own internal logic. If you’re a writer you’ll get that. If you’ve ever read Animal Man #26 (Grant Morrison’s last issue where he appears within the comic book and explains to Buddy the rules to the universe he inhabits) you’ll get it. If you’ve read The Trial you’ll get it. If you’ve watched Dark City you’ll get it.Interesting article on the author here (doesn’t really deal with Moving Parts though) and a short interview with the translator can be found here.
