Dhalgren

Dhalgren by Samuel R. Delany
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

It was good of William Gibson to warn the reader that the riddles in the book are not meant to be solved. A traditional novel sets up a mystery that would keep the reader guessing until it is wrapped up satisfactorily at the end, but Delany frustrates such expectations. Knowing that that’s the point removes the need to keep trying to figure out what it all means. It’s ok to let that go – there is no final answer.

Every interpretation you can lay on the book is destabilised. What looked like rape maybe wasn’t. What looked like a fatal accident may have been murder. The protagonist’s different experience of time casts doubt on his reliability as a point of view character and author. We can’t be sure if the poems he’s written have been plagiarised or not. Instead of solutions we have shifting perspectives.

The novel foregrounds its artificially. It’s an artefact that appears within itself, while also looping endlessly. A reader could be forgiven for finding such postmodern gimmicks tiresome. What saves the book is Delany’s honest account of the anxieties and compulsions of literary creation. The Kid worries over the poems he writes – deleting, rearranging, rewording – in a way that makes you understand why Delany’s prose is so immaculate. Every sentence is approached with care – surprising and virtuoso descriptions and turns of phrase abound. It is a delight to read.

The Kid’s uncertainty about whether he can be understood, and whether his sense of reality is shared with others, is placed in the context of a wider breakdown of human and natural laws. Bellona is a post-apocalyptic setting which showcases the freedoms and dangers of anarchism. Communities do emerge from the wreckage, although Delany finds the commune’s improvement projects embarrassing, preferring to dwell on how a gang of libertine ‘Scorpions’ enforce a kind of order through random acts of violence. A bourgeois family’s attempts to keep up appearances is ridiculed – Delany pointedly demonstrates that the trappings of civilisation they cling to cannot keep them safe. That cynicism may reflect the upheavals of the early 1970s, but Delany’s trust in the anarchic and sexually-liberated forces embodied by the Scorpions feels naïve nonetheless.

The best compliment you can pay Dhalgren is that it makes you want to read more Delany. He’s a Joycean writer to the extent that he cares about the poetic potential of prose fiction. And his open-minded, self-questioning sensibility in dealing with uncomfortable topics of sex, race, madness and power is particularly valuable in these censorious times. A great talent, and this long book is a good introduction to his strengths.

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