G. by John Berger

Reading a series of books by different authors in purely chronological order can make for some interesting contrasts from book to book. V. S. Naipaul's In a Free State was written with a rigorous, almost fierce austerity: at times, Naipaul included only the barest minimum--or less--of description of tone, of thought, of motive. By Comparison, John Berger's G., winner of the Booker Prize in 1972, overflows with description of the internal lives of the characters. At times, not only does the author prove points of view of all of the characters, but that of the author himself, anecdotes from the author's life, and side comments by the author about writing in general, and the present book in particular.

G. is the story of its protagonist, called either "the protagonist" or "G." throughout the novel. The illegitimate child of a wealthy Italian merchant and a privileged Englishwoman, born in the late 19th century, he is raised by neither of his parents but his mother's relatives. Due perhaps to his parentage, his upbringing, or a number of unusual childhood experiences, he grows into a man with unusual abilities: he can see people as they really are, and be seen by others for what he really is. He is a man who chooses to live without illusions of any kind.

And so, he becomes a seducer. Not for seduction's sake--he does not set to rack up carnal conquests. Not because he is fickle by nature--he seeks out women, not because he is indecisive, but because of his decisiveness. He does not deliberately try to inflame the jealousy of other men, nor is he oblivious to it. He is indeed aware of the fiancees and husbands that he cuckolds, but they simply aren't of any importance to him, even when they are bearing firearms. He does not lie to get women into bed--he speaks only the truth.

Though G. is an active player in his own life, he maintains a curiously impassive attitude. Or perhaps that it's that he's impassive towards the rest of the world, and he is solely concerned with the woman he currently loves.

He certainly seems impassive towards the world he lives in: whether it's a labor uprising in Milan, the dawn of aviation, or Italy's entrance into the first World War, he is unconcerned with the works and days of man--only a small subset of women occupies his interest.

And the central irony of all the vast amounts of mental and emotional description to be found in the novel is, we never really understand why G. does what he does. It would be acting out of compulsion, but he never seems to be compelled--he lives out of his own free will. Perhaps it's better to say that he sees a particular destiny for himself, allows that destiny to happen, and only at the end grows a bit desperate, because he does not see how that destiny can continue.

Overall, the novel can be rather tedious, with its constant switch of point of view and copious description of characters' thoughts. Sex is not at all romanticized--rather than being erotic, the author seems to go out of his way to make the descriptions vulgar.

The descriptions of the early days of aviation are nicely evocative of a period long past. Many of the side characters are beautifully constructed. Only G. remains elusive, a living plot device.

Next up: J. G. Farrell's The Siege of Krishnapur.