Moggerhanger

Moggerhanger A Novel by Alan Sillitoe with a preface by Ruth Fainlight

PREFACE by Ruth Fainlight the American poet, who was married to Alan Sillitoe for over fifty years

Thinking about what I would write for the preface of this book, it occurred to me that in fact this had already been done — far more appropriately (and probably far better) — by the author himself, in his essay, “On the Picaresque Novel and the Picaresque Hero,” included in A Flight of Arrows — opinions, people, places, Robson Books, 2003/Open Road Distribution 2016.

It is fascinating to read Sillitoe’s references to the not yet written (at least, not yet completed) third volume of the trilogy. The book you intend to read now proves that he was unable to resist the blandishments of its hero, Michael Cullen. I know that he had wanted to write a modern picaresque novel, its tone culled from those earlier works of the picaresque by Mateo Aleman and Alain LeSage, shadowed by the works of those great masters. I was as captivated and amused by this book as by the earlier volumes — although there is no real need to have read them in order to understand and enjoy the tale of Michael’s latest adventures. Alan waited for fifteen years to write volume two. The interval between that and the third volume was double: thirty years. It seems unlikely that he (or anyone else) could have lived long enough to continue with this story.

As far as I remember — and deducing from references to what was happening in the various worlds of politics, current events and popular culture at the time — the first draft of this book was written in the late 1980s. We have tried to keep the integrity of the text and the author’s voice — Sillitoe was adamant on the subject of editorial “assistance”: he rejected it entirely. Apart from the absolute minimum of alterations (mostly things I am sure he would have noticed and later altered himself), basically this is the unedited, uncut version of the book. We can never know what further changes he would have made himself. And what a pity that Sillitoe will not be able to continue the story further because, in spite of his insistence that this book is definitely the last he will write about his picaresque hero, I wonder. …

On the Picaresque Novel and the Picaresque Hero

Life is brief, and the picaresque hero knows it more than most. The true hero, statuesque rather than picaresque, knows it least. The picaro acts as if he is going to die tomorrow, while the true hero lords it as if he will live forever. The picaro, in other words, wants everything today. He craves to escape into the world of reality from youthful fantasy, but never quite gets there. The picaro is both the dreamer and the man of action, but his dreams are not so intense that they keep him from action, nor his actions so deeply considered that they destroy his dreams.

The picaro’s character can vary, because though his clear goals occasionally seem like ambition, he is often consumed by false ambitions that are no more than goals. Such impulses eventually lead to a feeling for ambition but, more often than not, they lead to disaster. Though he may have no clear notion as to what his ambition might be, he feels that only quick advantage can take him closer to obtaining it.

There are no disasters to a picaro, only setbacks, and he will do anything to further his schemes. He has a will to succeed rather than any well-defined path in life, and he will pursue his way by all the charm and guile of his nature. He will not do so by work. Sufficient people already labour to maintain an opulent world for him to enjoy, and there is no place for our hero in an occupation that from the outset would seem both disagreeable and tedious. In any case, not altogether uncharitably, our hero knows that for him to work would mean taking bread out of the mouths of others. Modesty would, in this instance and no other, lead him to protest that bread of so little value can only be scorned.

Adaptable and intelligent, the picaro looks upon work as something which would not allow him to display and exploit the full range of his peculiar genius. From the point of view of the picaresque hero no values in the world appear to be stable. If he is a born thief it is merely to acquire money quickly, which after all is only earning it but as in a film speeded up.

He is also a born thief of ideas, when he needs them, because to devise any philosophy or justification for his actions would only lead to the discovery, when they were put to the test, that someone had propagated them before him.

Therefore he is a conservative, believing in the basic order of society, so that he can learn all the rules and know better how to exist, otherwise he would vanish forever.

Within the limits, rough as they may be, the world is a merry-go-roundabout, and he is at that calm place in the middle from which he jumps onto the spinning part, with all its prize-like glitter and colour, or opportune moments to brag, cheat or seduce. He leaps off the roundabout when it becomes too fast and threatening for comfort, back to his centre island of safety, on realising that outside it are no secure places for him.

He must have a refuge from the perils of the world, and sometimes it exists only within himself. That is the frailest refuge of all, which he can hardly bear to be in, since it contains so little to support him. Better to be outside, rather than rely on interior resources. The kind of life he is temperamentally fitted to pursue is often harsh, but as long as the danger does not come too often, it is tolerable because, as a picaro, he can usually change things at least temporarily for the better.

If we were to define the picaresque tale, one chapter would describe how a temporarily destitute young itinerant came to an evening campfire over which a pot of succulent stew was cooking. He would tell a story, which could only be what is known as picaresque. In the tale he would have no time to develop character, or style, or indulge in prolonged research. The hero of his tale — like himself — has to be young, good looking, witty, brave (to a degree) and daring, as well as sexually potent and promiscuous. In short, he must have many of the qualities that the people around the campfire, in charge of the provisions, cannot possibly possess.

The hero has certain disadvantages in that he does not know his parents (or one of them) and so believes himself to be a bastard. He has been cast off without resources because his petty crimes can no longer be tolerated, an event which he, however, puts down to a malign fate.

He has little education, though much aptitude for acquiring a gold-leaf veneer of sophistication — like the kind which, when painted on someone at a sumptuous Renaissance feast, kills them because the skin is eventually unable to breathe. Lack of diligence has sharpened his wits. Having no set aim in life gives him freedom of manoeuvre. Such advantages engender optimism. He never lacks energy. He develops diplomacy and cunning.

When he tells his story by the campfire, after an adventure in which the above qualities availed him nothing, he relates his life-story to the rich travellers but stops at the point where it will be necessary to explain why the last adventure failed, and lets it be known that he cannot go on until he is given the best of meat and drink.

They fall under his spell, and while imbibing, our hero eyes the glitter and panoply of the parked caravan, or the lures of the fixed settlement around him. But the appurtenances of civilisation are not for him, not even to stay with for a while, or accompany a few miles down the road. He is a rover, an observer, a tale-teller and confidence man — the artist without an art except for the expertise of occasionally getting what he wants.

Being born without that adult ability of buckling down to the dull plod of making a living in some established trade or profession, he is of no fixed value to society. He cannot then be a rival to the people he is both entertaining and sponging off. He is affected by a subtle and incurable illness that will never let him know peace. Even when the well of fortune stops in his favour he cannot keep still and enjoy what he has got, either because the danger has thereby increased and he must escape, or because, by feeling that he can acquire still more riches, he overreaches himself in his greed and loses all. A gambler who is not content till he has gained heaven often ends up by losing the warmth of hell as well.