(Charles) Bruce Chatwin 1940–
English novelist and travel writer.
Each of Chatwin's books depicts a different world, consistently evoking the strangeness of place and people in a style termed "powerfully visual and aural" by the New Yorker. His acclaimed travel book, In Patagonia (1977), contains historical data and insightfully delineates people and places he encountered on a journey through the tip of South America. His first novel, The Viceroy of Ouidah (1980), was originally intended to be a biography but became instead an imaginative reconstruction of the nineteenth-century slave trade set within the former West African country of Dahomey. Horror and grotesque humor combine in this novel to depict the world and mentality of a Brazilian slave trader. Most critics praised the novel, although a few objected to the sensational subject matter.
Chatwin's second novel, On the Black Hill (1982), shifts locale once more. In this novel Chatwin delves into the lives of identical twins living in rural Wales. The important events in the story are confined to the family farm; the peculiarities and limited perspectives of that existence emerge through a series of compact, keenly observed episodes. Most critics praised the novel and Chatwin's compressed style. John Updike observed that Chatwin gave a sense "of the immensity of time a human life spans, a span itself dwarfed by the perspectives of history."
(See also Contemporary Authors, Vols. 85-88.)
Bruce Chatwin is an original: laconic, wistful, sweet and sour, detached and sympathetic, with a sharp eye for the curious. [In the travel book In Patagonia, he] writes very well indeed in a clear, streamlined, educated cis-Atlantic style that reminds you a little of Evelyn Waugh. He has a special gift for catching the genius loci of this strange springboard into the Void. (p. 550)
Maurice Richardson, "Walkabout," in New Statesman (© 1977 The Statesman & Nation Publishing Co. Ltd.), Vol. 94, No. 2431, October 21, 1977, pp. 550-51.∗
Bruce Chatwin's In Patagonia is … concerned with the human agents who have failed to transform the ambiente there in the past hundred years or so. It is a work of travel, of observation and accident, but also of learning, reflection and art, and can stand in the curiously distinguished literary company that Patagonia has touched….
Frequently on the journey south from Buenos Aires the author walked. In ninety-seven passages of from a few lines to a few pages he covers the distance, and much else besides…. Bruce Chatwin's success in this short book is the more interesting because it is so exceptional.
It is a book about isolated people, but of very diverse origins; the reader must reflect that any man might be a Patagon-ian…. As [William Henry] Hudson hinted, human weakness and oddity will show up more sharply against this background than against any other. In Patagonia resists the temptation of exploiting this natural advantage to excess. Chatwin can convey a person's eccentricity and absurdity without giving the reader that uneasy sense that a life is being reduced to a trouvaille. With persons as they appear in Patagonia, this requires an unusual exercise of rapport and restraint….
Mr Chatwin's encounters are always interesting because his episodic method allows him to leave all the others out entirely, and to cut each recorded encounter to just what it will bear. He relieves the eccentric with the ordinary, but the ordinary are just as finely conveyed…. He describes individuals, and not types, with the economy of the sketch, not the caricature.
In Patagonia is also the work of a learned man, not of the sort of traveller who thinks that reading will blunt rather than heighten sensibility. The author has read deeply in...
(This entire section contains 364 words.)
the extensive bibliography of the region, from the earliest discoverers through Darwin and Hudson to the Argentine writers of the present day…. Historically, it is the shade of Darwin that haunts the book most frequently….
In Patagonia is that most enviable achievement, a minor classic.
Malcolm Deas, "The Sands of the Deep South," in The Times Literary Supplement (© Times Newspapers Ltd. (London) 1977; reproduced from The Times Literary Supplement by permission), No. 3950, December 9, 1977, p. 1444.
It has taken some 85 years, but it looks as if Patagonia has now acquired another English laureate of remarkable literary powers in the person of Bruce Chatwin, who reversed [W. H.] Hudson's journey, traveling from London to the remote corners of "the accursed land," as it is called in Buenos Aires, and coming away with a book that is a little masterpiece of travel, history and adventure. It is called, simply, "In Patagonia" …; it is short—199 pages; and it is a wonderful read.
For Mr. Chatwin is a marvelous storyteller—a miniaturist who packs dozens of odd tales, bizarre characters and unforgettable scenes into the 97 succinct chapters of his book, many of them scarcely a page in length. Like Hudson, he has a sharp and sympathetic eye for natural history, and his book abounds in vivid pictorial glimpses of the landscape, but it is in his accounts of the human history of Patagonia that he is most absorbing. About everything from the legendary exploits of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid to the coming of kosher butchers from Israel to anarchist uprisings to grim Boer settlements, Mr. Chatwin has something memorable to tell us. And if the imagery of Patagonia has found its way into the poetry of Donne and Coleridge or the prose of Edgar Allan Poe, he knows exactly how it got there, and he tells us that too. He is not only a hearty traveler, capable of enduring the most awful discomforts and the most terrible food without complaint, but he has done his homework too, and he writes about all of it—the past and the present, the mythical and the historical, the land and the people—in a style that is alternately grave and comical but always precise and pictorial. (p. 3)
Mr. Chatwin's Patagonia is in many ways … a long way from Hudson's "solitary wilderness … remote from civilization," yet in other ways it is the same place, and it is in his gift for conjuring up these contrasts—for writing about both society and nature with an equally informed and distinguished eye—that his book is so impressive, and so pleasurable to read. "In Patagonia" is a book that in the beginning seems to promise an escape from the modern world but in the end leaves us with an even deeper sense of it. (p. 16)
Hilton Kramer, "Patagonia Revisited," in The New York Times Book Review (copyright © 1978 by The New York Times Company; reprinted by permission), July 30, 1978, pp. 3, 16.
Since tourists took over from travellers, the times have not been kind to those few, rare writers who have always seen the world well for us—who filter unknown landscapes through the screen of their curiosity, who travel at a human pace, and who keep notes that allow us to take armchair journeys after them….
The English, perhaps because they look on strangenesses with a piercingly cool eye, have turned up a steady stream of enlightening travellers…. But such writings have dwindled over the last two decades, giving way to more massive studies, which sum up countries and tell us everything about them except what they are like…. Yet there are endless alluring unknowns, lacking only a traveller with time to take them in, with an uncommitted curiosity and an unjudging eye, and with an appropriate prose manner. These qualities come brilliantly together in Bruce Chatwin, whose "In Patagonia" … takes travelling back to its magic roots….
[Mr. Chatwin] remains rigorously true to the tradition of the traveller's tale—the oldest form of storytelling—and never once intrudes himself self-consciously into the narrative. We know nothing about him at the book's end except that he has been ears, eyes, and memory to us—not impersonal but unpersonal. He is less a traveller than a wanderer, for he has few express intentions. His journey, through the startling landscapes of Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego, is thoroughly externalized, in sharp physical detail. He has the power of compressing place and character into small and vivid compass…. (p. 186)
[Clear-cut] cameos seem almost surreal separated from the thread of the narrative, but so do the scenes and characters in the book, for they loom like outposts of human existence against the empty landscape of the Patagonian desert. Since Patagonia has been settled largely in this century, the figures that Mr. Chatwin meets … have come from other lives, each with the tale of a journey, and the encounters become small inset narratives—as do tracks of history, for the past intrudes regularly as anecdote and memory into the journey…. Mr. Chatwin is as close to travellers' tales of the past and to the travellers whose paths he is crossing as he is to the landscape and its present inhabitants. What he shares with all of them is a sense of strangeness on the earth's surface, an awed sense of separation from anything fixed. He even sets himself up with a mock quest as a whimsical excuse for his journey. During his English childhood, his grandmother kept as a sacred relic a piece of what she insisted was brontosaurus skin, with coarse red hairs, brought back from Patagonia by her cousin, a sea captain called Charley Milward. It was unceremoniously thrown out on her death, but it serves Mr. Chatwin as a kind of Grail…. His journey is toward the enfabled Patagonia of his childhood.
Patagonia suits Mr. Chatwin admirably well, given his disposition toward wonders, both past and present. It is virtually only since 1877, when sheep farming was profitably introduced, that the region has attracted settlers from various parts of Europe, and their remote stations are often repositories of a pre-Patagonian existence. Each case of exile is a different story, entered into for distinct reasons, and each of the characters who punctuate the journey is an incarnation of a separate past. (pp. 186, 188)
"In Patagonia" jogs us with the realization that what we have come to regard as travel is no more than geographical transference, where hardly anything changes, where map and guidebook obliterate the landscape, where journeys are taken for the purpose of summing up, of reaching a conclusion—the very opposite of a wonder voyage. The book is of infinitely more value than cheap air fares, and we must look with enormous anticipation to wherever Mr. Chatwin goes for us next, for his prose is honed to bare and moving essentials. (pp. 188, 190)
Alastair Reid, "The Giant Ground Sloth and Other Wonders," in The New Yorker (© 1978 by The New Yorker Magazine, Inc.), Vol. LIV, No. 34, October 9, 1978, pp. 186, 188, 190.
[In Patagonia] is a travel book of sorts, containing a lot of well-digested history of that strange southerly part of Argentina where so many oddly assorted people have turned up: Magellan, Drake, Darwin, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Spanish revolutionaries, Scotch sheep farmers, Jewish merchants, a colony of dour Welshmen, and the author's grandmother's cousin, a shipwrecked sea captain. As he travels south from Buenos Aires, much of the way on foot, Chatwin gives us Patagonia in charged fragments: anecdotes, etymology, landscape, characters, poetry, towns, Patagonian literature, tragic sea stories. The style is the man: detached, humorous, succinct, wry, feeling, energetic, self-effacing: he catches the essence and gives just that, not a word more. In Patagonia may bring to mind The Great Railway Bazaar, but it is a less showoff book: absolutely original, perfectly poised, wise, an unclassifiable classic.
Eve Auchincloss, in a review of "In Patagonia," in Book World—The Washington Post (© 1978, The Washington Post), December 3, 1978, p. E14.
[The Viceroy of Ouidah shows that] Chatwin has a gift for remarkably vivid imagery: 'Virgins were broken at Simbodji with the ease of bursting seedpods', and on the way to Dahomey, 'women pointed up a tree to where a crucified man croaked for water in a library of sleeping fruit bats.' Reading Chatwin's descriptions of life in Brazil and West Africa is like reading the early history of Greene-land. It is a sad, barbaric, decadent story told beautifully and brilliantly. Admirers of Conrad and Malcolm Lowry will relish it: and to most palates, it is curiously original, like 'the shock of aguardiente on the tongue'.
Brian Martin, "Slave Coast," in New Statesman (© 1980 The Statesman & Nation Publishing Co. Ltd.), Vol. 100, No. 2590, November 7, 1980, p. 29.
[The Viceroy of Ouidah is an] extraordinary fictional treatment of the life of a Brazilian slave-trader who ended his days in Dahomey, flamboyant, ruined, flawed, the god-like ancestor of generations of darker and darker-skinned descendants whom the author discovered when he was trying to write a factual history. His information was patchy and he decided to turn the story into fiction, which he has triumphantly done. From early 19th-century Brazil, he follows Francisco Manoel de Silva to Dahomey (now Benin) where the farouche hero sets up a sub kingdom, is patronised and then rejected by the fearsome king, saved by the king's half brother, and dies sadly, surrounded by his teeming offspring forever exiled from the Brazil he longs for.
It is flawed as fiction but has such an obsessional quality, such vigour and exactitude in the description of life beyond conventional boundaries that it is intensely powerful stuff. Chatwin is fascinated by flamboyant savagery, the barbarity of the African kings matched only by the barbarity of the Christian slave-traders who deal with them. It should not be missed.
Mary Hope, in a review of "The Viceroy of Ouidah," in The Spectator (© 1980 by The Spectator; reprinted by permission of The Spectator), Vol. 245, No. 7949, November 15, 1980, p. 21.
The Viceroy of Ouidah is far more fantastic than most novels, while being far closer to fact. The unbelievable brutality of the slave trade, and the smell of blood, are overpowering….
Extravagant though all [the details] … may seem, it is the discipline with which this book is written that is the most striking thing about it. Every temptation … to interpret, explain, embroider, enlarge, has been resisted. Bruce Chatwin's literary manner is stark and staccato. But his material is so baroque and suggestive that his short book seems longer and denser than it really is. It verges on being excessively 'decadent', hideously and ludicrously camp, a glittering sado-masochistic drag-act performed to the beat of the black man's drum. It is held back from the brink by strict compression—there must have been some hard-headed cutting—and by the sad and moral marriage the author makes between historic and poetic truth….
The overriding impression is of clashing cultural myths, all of them with death at their centre, that lie rotting one on top of another in a dreadful, comic compost—and not only, if one thinks about it, in Dahomey.
Victoria Glendinning, "Death in Dahomey" (© British Broadcasting Corp. 1980; reprinted by permission of Victoria Glendinning), in The Listener, Vol. 104, No. 2689, November 27, 1980, p. 733.
[Dahomey] makes a strange setting for the second book of an author whose In Patagonia enjoyed much critical praise. The story [of The Viceroy of Ouidah] evidently appealed to Chatwin not because of any prurient interest in the scandal of the slave trade, but because it took place in backwaters of Africa and South America. There is almost nothing in this book about the sufferings of the slaves or the mechanics or dimensions of the slave trade. But there are brilliant descriptions of the dusty poverty of the Brazilian interior and of the rot and decay of the humid coast. Almost every page contains marvellously concise observations by someone who has travelled in these remote places and who revels in the outlandish or the exotic. The strength of the book lies in the wealth of detail, the meticulous depiction of everything from the look of a man burnt alive in a brushfire to a tree full of "a library of sleeping fruit bats", or to the pictures and termite-riddled furnishings of a Benin house.
Chatwin reserves his most careful descriptions for anything connected with religion or superstition. He compares the power of a blood-thirsty Dahomean king, surrounded by prostrate subjects and the skulls of his victims, and that of a poderoso do sertão, a mighty cattle baron of the Brazilian north-east. He notices every custom or ritual that surrounds marriage, child-birth, or particularly death in those two regions. He loves to catalogue the curios and relics kept by old people—by Francisco da Silva after his eventual decline, or by his daughter.
The Viceroy of Ouidah is remarkably short for a novel that covers the rise and fall of a trading dynasty and spans a century and a half in time. But it is none the less powerful despite its brevity. It tells of amazing adventures in wild places and makes compelling reading.
John Hemming, "A Trader from the Badlands," in The Times Literary Supplement (© Times Newspapers Ltd. (London) 1980; reproduced from The Times Literary Supplement by permission), No. 4053, December 5, 1980, p. 1380.
Bruce Chatwin's travel book "In Patagonia" … earned wide praise and distinguished awards. In it he yielded only occasionally to the urge for novelistic invention that overcame him this time [in "The Viceroy of Ouidah"]. He set out to write a biography of a Brazilian slaver in Dahomey, but he was arrested in Cotinou and something happened—he doesn't say what—that made him decide not to go back for more research. Thus he wrote this "work of the imagination." How can we object? None of us has seen these things. No doubt Dahomey was and is something special. We read today of Uganda. Still, others have found or imagined other primitive Africas. One could mention Graham Greene's "Journey Without Maps" or, for a work of the imagination based on somewhat less horrendous events, Chinua Achebe's "Arrow of God." That novel of West Africa has violence enough, and cruel superstition too, yet it is suffused with the common humanity of which I find not one dried drop in "The Viceroy of Ouidah." (p. 28)
John Thompson, "The Hero Was a Slaver," in The New York Times Book Review (copyright © 1980 by The New York Times Company; reprinted by permission), December 14, 1980, pp. 7, 28.
There is no denying the brilliance of Bruce Chatwin's book. The prose coruscates, so that many images from this African horror story linger disturbingly in the mind.
Yet you are left wondering what to make of The Viceroy of Ouidah. The tale's bare bones (a fitting metaphor) concern a young Brazilian who set himself up on the slave coast of Dahomey in the early 19th century and grew rich from the many human cargoes he shipped back to South America, until the dark continent wreaked its dreadful revenge upon him.
This may be taken as a superb, impressionistic piece of historical reconstruction, although Chatwin carefully calls it "a work of imagination."…
So the way to approach this brief, splendid book is to put aside any agonizing about truth (even the Aristotelian sort) and treat it as an "entertainment," in Graham Greene's use of the word.
The story begins in the present, at the requiem held every year for the long-dead Dom Francisco. His many descendants, darker with every generation, and now "numberless as grasshoppers," gather to honor him. After the mass, the voodoo, as a sweating procession weaves through the African town to the ant-ridden ancestral home. Beside the Goanese four-poster a bottle of Gordon's gin is always ready, for when the great man awakes. Near the praying plaster statue of St. Francis of Assisi stands a curious object covered in blood and feathers: a Dahomean altar of the dead.
From this moment you are in thrall. The word-pictures pile up, haunting and horrific, in paragraphs often only a short sentence in length. On every page they compete to be quoted….
But there is much sardonic humor in the story too. As the slave-trader succumbs to Africa, its people pay him back for his old ways in a fashion which is terrible, yet somehow clownish and affectionate.
The structure of the book is adroit. It works backwards in time, telling of the slave-trader's amber-eyed daughter, forever lost in love for a young English lieutenant who came to Ouidah, danced with her, then sailed away.
A third of the way through you are told about the childhood of Francisco in the backlands of Brazil. This section has quite a different texture from the African chapters which surround it: but the author of the much-praised In Patagonia also has a keen sense of South America's past, so the spell is never broken. You know, although he does not, that Francisco's destiny and doom lie across the Atlantic….
Just as Francisco can be remembered as not one man, but several, so the story may be given many interpretations. This is one of those enigmatic books which might be handed to several friends who could afterwards be lured together for a diverting evening, when each declares what the message is.
Richard Hall, "Nightmare in the Darkness of Dahomey," in Book World—The Washington Post (© 1981, The Washington Post), January 4, 1981, p. 4.
[On the Black Hill] disconcerts expectation; something one imagines by now this author very much enjoys doing. After the harshly and brilliantly exotic expanses of In Patagonia and The Viceroy of Ouidah, [Chatwin] has elected to study a few square miles of hill-farm in Radnorshire, and the lives of the twin brothers who farm it.
The writing has the emblematic self-sufficiency of the late David Garnett's. The sense of place is flawlessly invoked, usually in paragraphs of only a few lines …; but the necessary presence of the practical is never neglected….
The mixture of the possible and the unlikely with the laconically lyrical is very much in David Garnett's peculiar vein. So is the humour, which gets in everywhere …; and so is the author's amusing himself by pretending to be a loyal slave of the accidental, while in fact he is magisterially pulling all the strings. Anyone who enjoyed being bullied in this way by Garnett will enjoy this book too.
Benjamin and Lewis, the brothers, who are identical twins, are shown over a period of eighty years sharing their work, and also their bed, noncommittally, and sharing each other's pains when the other is in danger or distress; Lewis's nose bleeds too when Benjamin, rejected in 1914 as a conscientious objector, is beaten up in the Army.
They do not invariably share each other's pleasures—Lewis several times broaches relationships, always abortive, with women—but often they do, as when their mother gives them each a Hercules bicycle on their thirty-seventh birthday, on which they make archaeological forays into Wales. Unhappily rebuffed in these, they keep the more closely to their farm—which is called The Vision, as if challenging reviewers to make too much of the fact—but they never become recluses; their friends include members of the local gentry, the local hippie, and numerous crumbling neighbours, chiefly female, who are often difficult to distinguish under the caked grime and dung.
The book is "about" such concrete, arbitrary details as those suggested here. It may give a fine insight into the feuding and tolerance of a small community, and even a series of incidental comments on British social history in this century, but these are certainly not its motives. Its intention is to paint a picture of two men's lives in a particular place. What happens is not really the author's business, Chatwin implies. Love may occur, or violence, or sadness, but his concern is to show the continued existence of the brothers in their parents' house. Sentiment is always checked, anticipation always baffled, by events…. The charitable, if slightly distended eye suspends judgment, and Radnorshire is seen as every bit as full of banked-down human madness as Patagonia. Where on earth, one wonders, will Bruce Chatwin go next?
Anne Duchêne, "Doubling the Vision," in The Times Literary Supplement (© Times Newspapers Ltd. (London) 1982; reproduced from The Times Literary Supplement by permission), No. 4148, October 1, 1982, p. 1063.
Geographically, the claustrophobic world inhabited for 80 years by Lewis and Benjamin Jones [in On the Black Hill] is close to that of Mary Webb's novels; thematically it is even closer…. Mr Chatwin is a better, because more fastidious, writer than Mary Webb; but the elements which are finest in her novels are also to be found in his: an ability to evoke country lives flowing, strong, dark and deep, through their narrow channels; a poetic sensitivity to landscapes changing with each change of season; and the born storyteller's knack of convincing one that these characters scraped their precarious livings, carried on their embittered feuds, triumphed or (more often) were thwarted in their violent passions, and had their momentary epiphanies of glory in precisely this manner and no other….
There are passages in the book when Mr Chatwin edges perilously near to the cliff-edge of sentimentality and bathos….
But, in general, the book tells its strange, moving story of these two intertwined lives, each supporting and choking the other, two halves, male and female, of single, larger nature, with honesty, dignity and conviction.
Francis King, "Ties of Blood," in The Spectator (© 1982 by The Spectator; reprinted by permission of The Spectator), Vol. 249, No. 8047, October 2, 1982, p. 24.
'On the Black Hill' experiments with themes [Chatwin] has made his own as a travel writer—the improbable and bizarre completeness of worlds on the margins of consciousness, and the ready-made fiction you can find, if you look, in the accidents of history and geography. 'On the Black Hill' surveys twentieth-century life from the vantage-point of a small mountain in Radnorshire, where time arranges itself in slow layers, and you can observe the frenzy of large events through the wrong end of the telescope.
Eccentricity is the order of things, and the book's beginning, describing the curious, crotchety routines of twin bachelor brothers perched on their hill … has the same sort of imaginative effrontery as the opening of Mervyn Peake's 'Gormenghast.' You're plunged into a pattern of life that refers only to itself.
Chatwin, unlike Peake, is interested in the way his characters' insulated and conventionally crazy existence is, against all odds, a good recipe for survival. Lewis and Benjamin preserve an innocence that satirizes the world outside. By the original accident of their twinhood they've never learned to be 'individuals,' never tried to take possession of their destinies. In their musty, communal consciousness the things that happen—the First World War, their father's murder of their pet pig, the excavation of the tomb of Tutankhamun in the News of the World—repose innocently side by side, rather as the aged twins do in bed, making no sense and doing no harm….
This is shameless nostalgia that recognises itself as such, and one of the novel's charms is its gently mocking perspective on the fashionable themes of conservation and self-sufficiency. Mr Chatwin's twin Joneses achieve self-sufficiency through mother, and having very small egos. That said, though, the book is in the end disappointing because the characters—as opposed to their setting—aren't, after their first appearance, invented thoroughly enough. I suspect Mr Chatwin finds truth stranger than fiction. This novel leaves one with the sense that for him fact is, to date, more imaginatively liberating than fantasy.
Lorna Sage, "Bachelor Sanctuary," in The Observer (reprinted by permission of The Observer Limited). October 3, 1982, p. 33.∗
After the excellent book on his travels, In Patagonia, it is at first surprising to find Bruce Chatwin writing a novel about the small sheep farmers at home on the hills of the Welsh Border country of England. Sheep farming is, of course, the common link. In the nineteenth century large numbers of tough, poor, and exalted Welsh peasants migrated to Patagonia as if drawn to the isolation, the rains, the snows and hard conditions they knew at home and where they would be free of the mocking gaze and rule of the Sassenach conquerors. The people of On the Black Hill are part of the sturdy remnant who toiled and haggled at home.
But if the novel is a watchful traveler's journey through peasant life during the first eighty years of this century, its characters are strong and strange enough to burst the bonds of parish record. They are by nature self-dramatizing. They are carrying with them the ancient inner life of their race. On the Black Hill has been compared to works like Thomas Hardy's The Woodlanders or Tess of the D'Urbervilles, because it comes so close to the skin of rural life, but the comparison is misleading. Chatwin dispenses with grand tragic plot and Hardy's dire use of coincidence. Above all there is no President of the Immortals indifferent to human fate, there is no Victorian atheism and pessimism….
Strangeness plainly stated is the key to Mr. Chatwin's plotless chronicle, the mixing of outward and inner life. The story is dominated by two bachelor brothers who are identical twins. They are thrifty farmers who slave for eighty years on poor mountainy land in an isolated farm…. (p. 6)
There is rural murder in the novel and suicide and there is a rotting corpse when a farm is isolated in a bad winter. We are watching the behavior of raw people as they fight their way fiercely and sometimes comically through their lives: they are neither the poeticized people of towny nostalgic novels about peasant life, nor are they crude and Zolaesque. They are far from decadent; they take their sexuality whole-heartedly. Mr. Chatwin is not an erotic novelist but he does convey the ruling sexual willingness. There is a robust account of a lusty Welsh fair where Lewis, who is after the girls, makes Benjamin take a spin on the Wall of Death. Benjamin has to face the intolerable sight of girls with their dresses flying over their faces and sees bare flesh. Benjamin staggers into the street and vomits into the gutter but the girls cannot get Lewis from him.
Mr. Chatwin's writing is simple and direct. He has learned from the Russians "to make it strange," which is second nature to the Welsh; he is quietly true to changes of sky and landscape and is remarkable in his power to bring human feeling to the sight by some casual action. (pp. 6, 8)
The whole book is at once grave, sparkling, and ingeniously contrived. Even the German psychiatrist who appears to explain the pathology of twinship is assimilated into the story without turning it into a case history. (p. 8)
V. S. Pritchett, "Make It Strange," in The New York Review of Books (reprinted with permission from The New York Review of Books; copyright © 1983 Nyrev, Inc.), Vol. XXIX, Nos. 21 & 22, January 20, 1983, pp. 6, 8.
[Bruce Chatwin] writes a clipped, lapidary prose that compresses worlds into pages. "In Patagonia," an account of his wanderings in southern Argentina, won high praise five years ago for its witty obliquity, elegantly economical descriptions, wealth of curious historical and paleontological data, and perky word portraits of the drunken gauchos and homesick Scotsmen he encountered in this vast, raw region. The one virtue "In Patagonia" did not conspicuously possess, it seemed to me, was momentum; the traveller so deliberately minimized his personality and obscured his motives that the prose seemed to travel on ghostly legs of its own, snacking on scenery and bits of dialogue where it pleased, and hopping about so airily between past and present, between experienced incident and researched document, that the exotic reality was half-eclipsed by the willful manners of the invisible guide. Mr. Chatwin writes in such short paragraphs that he seems to be constantly interrupting himself. His narratives must be savored in short takes, like collections of short stories. His third book and second novel, "On the Black Hill" …, also skips, scintillatingly, across a vast terrain—a stretch of time: the eighty years that the Jones twins, Lewis and Benjamin, have lived in Radnorshire, a rural county of Wales bordering that of Hereford, in England. (p. 126)
The author lays out this tale of country narrowness in a mosaic of wonderfully sharp and knowing small scenes. Though Mr. Chatwin was born in 1940, the details of daily life early in the century seem an open book to him…. [He] re-creates the past out of what seem not paper souvenirs but living memories, with an understated mastery of period detail and a loving empathy into the inner lives such detail adorned. (pp. 126-27)
The Jones twins are his centerpiece, and the mysterious, in-frangible connection between them somehow his moral. From toddlerhood on, they share the same sensations, and Lewis, the older and stronger, feels the pain that mishaps inflict upon Benjamin. Their earliest memories are identical, and even in old age they can dream the same dream. (p. 128)
Now, Mr. Chatwin, a demon researcher, must have a basis for these supernatural connections that the twins enjoy and suffer; but there is something creepy here, and perhaps allegorical, that strains belief. Their twinship is in fact a homosexual marriage, with Benjamin the feminine partner and Lewis the masculine…. Mr. Chatwin's ingenuity at posing obstacles and long blank intervals is fully needed to suppress our wonder that a robust and prosperous male goes eighty years with no more than a few scratchy and aborted romances. (pp. 128-29)
Nevertheless, the apparition of the linked twins chimes with much else that is slightly fabulous in their Welsh surround; we seem to see through them into a hilly, antique landscape drenched in flowers—dozens and dozens of botanical specifics are woven into the text—and overshadowed by dramatic clouds…. A sense has been conveyed—and this only a novel to some degree "historic" can do—of the immensity of time a human life spans, a span itself dwarfed by the perspectives of history…. It is a measure of Mr. Chatwin's compression that "On the Black Hill" achieves it in less than two hundred and fifty pages. His studied style—with something in it of Hemingway's chiselled bleakness, and something of Lawrence's inspired swiftness—touches on the epic. (pp. 129-30)
John Updike, "The Jones Boys" (© 1983 by John Updike), in The New Yorker, Vol. LIX, No. 5, March 21, 1983, pp. 126-30.