Whatta Guy: Engleby by Sebastian Faulks

Which cover is better? I'm partial to the one on the left. The one on the right is a bit too tra-la-la for my taste, and is totally misleading in light of the book itself. The book is not, after all, about a loveable, wholesome English farmer who cycles between villages selling eggs from a basket. It is about a madman who-- and I sincerely hope I'm not the only one to have found this-- is enormously charming.

By the time we find out that Mike Engleby is a freak and a murderer, Faulks has made quite sure that we're in a position where we'll find this difficult to accept. Engleby is our narrator, after all: He's the fictional author of the fictional "autobiography" we're reading. Unreliable narrators are nothing new to the literary landscape, but this one is so confessional to begin with, so intensely likeable, that when we figure out his true nature, we're disappointed, embarrassed, and worried by the fact that we fell for him hook, line, and sinker.

By the time we find out that Mike Engleby is suffering from "schizoid personality disorder...will elements of narcissism and antisocial personality disorder", we've learned about his difficult, impoverished childhood (no self-pity, though!). We've accepted his snobbish, blasé outlook of academia ("'The Crucible'...is about a group of American Puritans called Goody this and Good that; it has self-righteousness and modern parallels. Students like it because it makes them feel enfranchised") as typically adolescent. We've accepted his shoplifting and pickpocketing to be a result of class resentment and basic need. The way he describes his drug and alcohol addiction is actually kind of hilarious and anyhow, it's the seventies, and he's an undergraduate and Cambridge. In a voice-driven book, Engleby's voice is welcome, appreciated, and enjoyed. He's unintentionally hilarious and hugely entertaining.

Gradually, things get suspicious. Engleby has only one friend, and it becomes painfully clear that they're not even that close. There's a girl, too, and Engleby describes her as being close to him, even a girlfriend, but she can't really be more than a casual acquaintance. When she disappears and is presumed to be dead, the gaps in Engleby's memory, coupled with his dillusional view of their relationship, and his occasional rages, become worrisome, but the case goes cold, and Engleby is accused of nothing. Later, as an adult, we see him settle into life as a journalist ("It's basically quite unbelievably easy"), and are distracted by his success. We're charmed again by his cleverness. Even though he's a suspicious oddball, we still want to hear his opinion about everything: Inane dinner parties, English politicians, journalism, you name it.

It isn't until close to the end of the book that we get a portrait of Engleby from another character's point of view. The dissonance is very disconcerting, perhaps partly because it's been right under our noses- albeit between the lines- the whole time.

That "Engleby" is dark goes without saying. I was reminded instantly of Ian McEwan, although to my knowledge McEwan has never written a fictional "autobiography." Who has? William Boyd, apparently, but I've never read it. "Engleby" is like nothing I've ever read before. I spilled beer all over the library's copy of this book, and will probably have to buy it, but I don't really mind.