Now, here's a surprise. Having stumbled through a sequential reading of William Golding's novels, the signs for The Paper Men are hardly promising. Twenty years have passed since The Spire, a towering (sorry) masterpiece that appears to have left its author spent; everything that's come from his typewriter since has been patchy, messy, ragged. The Paper Men barely merits a mention in most biographies, just a minor footnote. Oddly, it turns out to be rather good.
At last, Golding's attempts to capture ordinary lives in an ordinary world bear some fruit. Previous experiments have been either tedious or hopeless; here, he finds just the right balance, slowly building up his characters to allow more florid, thickly-painted expression later in the novel. For once, it's just thoroughly readable: each chapter builds another layer onto the structure, draws you deeper into the story of a bitter, alcoholic novelist and his obsessive biographer. After so much effort, it feels comfortable and confident; while it never threatens to match the intensity of his earlier work, it shows little sign of concern for that, happy within itself instead.
Until the last line. Which is so dreadful that I'm tempted to quote it in full, just to lessen the blow for anyone who might follow in my footsteps. For two final chapters, Golding weaves a splendid conclusion, all muted sadness and uncomfortable silences; having warmed to the novel enormously during its gradual rise and fall, it feels remarkably well-judged, just right. Until the author's courage fails him and he throws in a final twist that's born of an almost teenage immaturity, a misguided need to leave the reader with a surprised gasp rather than merely a thoughtful frown. So unnecessary. Buy a copy and cross it out before you start.
