I thought that Golding had essentially only written The Lord of the Flies. Turns out I was wrong (and, as a matter of
fact, I ended up enjoying The Paper Men
a lot more than his supposed masterpiece).
At times the novel is almost an early and less polished version of Barney’s Version (apologies for the
multiple “versions” there) – the same kind of rant given by a very interesting
man clearly not in full control of his mind. Being old, rude, and blunt the
narrator also doesn’t have an idyllic view of Italy, something that, needless
to say, feels like a welcome departure from the delightful picture painted by
so many writers since, well, since forever…
The figure of Rick Tucker is so very sad to me. I’m not quite sure
whether my mental picture of him is even more miserable than the one most
readers must have because of my own struggles with(in) the academic world. But,
hey, at least I’m really glad that he ends the story the way he does…
One thing, though, remains ultimately unclear to me: why would anyone care
that much about the biography of a writer? I mean, it’s not like writers are
important figures in today’s world, or that a book like that is likely to sell.
If I was as rich as Tucker’s “benefactor”, I would just buy the author and
force him to tell me the story of his life rather than hiring someone else to
do try to do that for me…
