If you believe the hype, William Nicholson’s novel “Society of Others” is a stunning, intense philosophical thriller reminiscent of a cross between Salinger’s “Catcher In the Rye” and the best of Kafka. A myriad of third- and fourth-tier reviewers have said just that. Yet, for all the voices that have chimed in, it’s the silence from the major literary reviewers that is most telling.
The truth is that Nicholson’s self-indulgent, trite and soporific novel hardly warrants consideration of review. A novel that can’t decide between influences, recycles entirely too much of its predecessors and requires readers to not only suspend disbelief but also logic and intellect; it is remarkable more for its failures than for its successes.
“So this is the story of how everything changed. I’m not going to tell you my name. If you want a name, use your own.”
From the opening paragraphs, Nicholson’s egotistical prose takes the reader on a fantastical, unbelievable journey from the heart of modern Britain into an unnamed, Orwellian eastern bloc country. The unnamed narrator, nihilistic, self-centered and apathetic — not unlike the book itself, chooses to leave Great Britain to hitchhike across Europe. A quest of boredom more than self-discovery, this pretentious Holden Caulfield adventure quickly becomes Kafka meets “Fahrenheit 451” meets George Orwell when he hitches a ride from a truck driver smuggling books into a police state. Marker, the truck driver, begins the first of the book’s many psycho-philosophical debates when he launches into diatribes against Socrates, Rousseau, Aquinas, Kant and Wittgenstein.
The plot, which involves inadvertent assassinations, involvement with multiple socio-political movements and confrontations with the state, turns and twists like a bad movie playing on the USA Network. Wavering between action and inaction, the narrator is more tossed around by events surrounding him than actually involved. His actions are always phrased as if he has no control, often with little memory of the event or understanding of what is occurring. One can imagine even the writers of “Alias” refusing to believe what is happening.
The real fault of the novel is that its pretentiousness gets in the way of the message it is trying to convey. In 2005, it is a little late to beat the horse that was already beaten by every imitator of Orwell’s “1984,” Bradbury’s “Fahrenheit 451” and Huxley’s “Brave New World.” Yet, somehow Nicholson makes a special point to align himself with all three, while bringing up the dust of Kafka and Salinger.
Even if the egregiousness of this choice could be excused, the half-hearted attempt to make them seem more relevant and modern by positing that the anonymous eastern European state where most of the action takes place in is under attack by “terrorists” simply belittles the intelligence of the reader.
For Nicholson, books are good, random violence is bad, and non-violence will win over the soul if not the state. Why he believes modern readers are too ignorant to get that message from the more well written books that he draws his inspiration from is beyond understanding.
As if a painfully obvious plot and insulting the intelligence of his readers is not enough, Nicholson adds insult to injury by replacing honest philosophy with cookie-fortune wisdom. Mixed throughout are little snippets of the book’s namesake, “The Society of Others” by the fictional Leon Vicino. “Do not expect to be happy. Happiness is your horizon. It will retreat before you if you pursue it,” Vicino writes. “Your life is a voyage of discovery. You are an explorer.”
Phrases that would make Deepak Chopra vomit in his own mouth.
Like a bolt of lightning, these substitutions for actual thought begin to work on the narrator. It’s hard to imagine someone who just 70 pages earlier was perceptively skewering modern life would find value in such commonplace and shallow thought.
Of course, when the narrator finally meets Vicino, he doesn’t recognize him. Believing he is a priest of some sort, they discuss the nature of God and man. And, of course, our narrator is enlightened.
If there is a God, he’s rolling his eyes.
How this pathetic attempt at fiction made it onto Barnes & Noble’s “Discover Great Writers” list is incomprehensible. Too full of himself, Nicholson embarks on a journey that ends in confusion and failure. Invest the $23.95 cover price in paperbacks of Orwell, Kafka, Salinger and Bradbury.
Grade: DO NOT BUY THIS BOOK
