Review by Bill
Kirton
There are books
you enjoy but which then fade and there are books which stay with you. They may
stay for reasons of style, subject matter or because they touched on a specific
thread which was important to you. Whatever the reason, though, if a book does stay
with you after you’ve finished it, the writer can congratulate him/herself on
having succeeded, so congratulations to Philip Paris for achieving that sort of
success with Men Cry Alone.
The theme of the
novel – partnerships in which men are abused by women – suggests that, in this
case, it’s the shock value of the content that makes its impact last. And it’s
true that Paris ’s
careful, studied treatment of the theme, the thoroughness of his research and
the sensitivity of his portrayal of the characters – ‘good’ and ‘bad’ – are all
very impressive. However, the real power of the book lies in the subtlety of
his analysis of the psychology behind the events and his insinuation that
extreme violence can be a feature of the most ‘ordinary’ relationships.
The inverted
commas I’ve put around ‘good’, ‘bad’ and ‘ordinary’ are there to show that each
of these terms needs to be questioned and, in this context, they don’t have the
single moral value that’s normally ascribed to them.
The book opens
with a gentle setting of context and an almost anecdotal approach to one of the
main characters, all so skilfully managed that the shocking event towards which
it’s moving is that much greater when it eventually does arrive. The reader
doesn't know it's coming but then, neither did the character, and so Paris has made quite a
strong point right at the outset. He’s set up a tension between the ordinariness
of the everyday and the unthinkable possibility of extreme, unsuspected violence.
Three separate
stories are told, each involving a couple in which the man is abused by the
woman. Their respective situations and ages allow Paris to suggest the spectrum of such
violence is broad: Alfred and Enid are in their 70s and have known and loved
each other for 60 years; Tom and Gemma have a young daughter; and Gordon and
Tania are childless. Structurally,
having three distinct narrative threads is a shrewd choice. In each, there are
sequences which end with cliffhangers, whereupon the scene shifts to one of the
other couples but rather than this frustrating readers by leaving them in
suspense, they’re transported to a narrative point at which a previous
cliffhanger is about to be resolved.
For all three
couples, we’re given unadorned, ordinary settings peopled by characters unremarkable save for the fact that they are
abuser and abused. There are no stylistic flourishes, no fancy literary or
linguistic tricks, just a stripped chronicle of their days together and the
mixture of furies and quiet desperation that characterise their lives.
The book is about
more than abuse. It's about love, relationships, life. The little things we do
unconsciously every day which may seem trivial but which constitute our
strength and which, if broken or distorted, replace our previously reliable
reality with chaos and impotence. As you read and become involved with these
characters, the ordinariness of their lives strikes you, starts making you ask
yourself questions about morality, psychology, motives, relationships and how
all these things depend on the maintenance of really simple habits and
routines.
Two of the
abusers are unpleasant characters, but they’re not monsters, and in each of the
relationships, the word ‘love’ is still a powerful part of the equation which
holds them together. This contributes to the bewilderment felt by both characters
and reader. All in all, what’s being
recorded is a tragic but baffling phenomenon. We’re seeing people manipulate
the little things of life to plot against one another, use a child or the
threat of suicide to control a partner. The real shock is that such familiar,
trivial things in the most ordinary of circumstances can develop into something
truly sinister.
This is an
intelligent, considered, sympathetic book which gives you three gripping
stories and constantly provokes you to reflect on the mysterious bonds which
hold (or are supposed to hold) people together.
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