Kill Your Darlings

by Terence Blacker

  ‘What generation is that then, Dad?’ Doug looked at me with open curiosity.

  Although I had been absorbed in the complex dramas of my professional life, I had noticed that my son had changed over the past months. He had found words. He conversed openly. His face, less sleepy and furtive, had a new and bright confidence to it. The absurdly apologetic wisps of hair about his chin had materialized into an irritating little beard of the type favoured by trad jazz players or French existentialists of the late Fifties. His shoulders had lost the bony stoop which had made him look like some crushed and miserable refugee. I had tried to persuade myself that this transformation had been effected by the time I had recently spent with him (Marigold’s aggressive female exuberance had always seemed to sap the vitality from him) but in my heart I knew that it was his girlfriend, chatty, noisy, randy little Zoe, who had been his saviour. Sex had saved him.

  ‘I was referring to my generation,’ I said quietly. ‘It may surprise you but critics around the world have come to recognize the talent of Englishmen now in their mid-life prime. The usual naysayers might claim that we are inward-looking, over-absorbed with the tight little circle within which we live but that was doubtless said about Henry James or Scott Fitzgerald.’

  Doug was shaking his head. ‘How can you? I just don’t get it. You really do seem to believe all this shit you come out with.’

  ‘Maybe I’m wrong to make these claims for our generation. But, just as when you’re a writer, you have to believe you are the best, so you need to have faith in your peers. Confidence is what gets you to your desk every morning. It’s the machinery that mines the ore from your soul.’

  ‘Or someone else’s soul.’ The words hung in the air for a moment like a threat.

  ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

  ‘This is me, Dad.’ Doug was almost whispering now. ‘You’re not talking to some sad bastard of an interviewer. You can kid the rest of the world along, but you don’t have to kid yourself. You don’t have to kid me.’ He shrugged sadly. ‘Do me a favour and be honest with me at least.’

  ‘I am being entirely honest.’

  Doug snorted like a frightened horse. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘Certain source material was, as you know, made available to me,’ I conceded. ‘It was absorbed and used in my fiction. As Faulkner said, “If a writer has to rob his own mother –”.’

  ‘It wasn’t source material, Dad. You copied the fucker out!’ The words were spoken with the enraged squawk of the old Doug. ‘Word for fucking word.’

  I paused, determined not to let my son’s adolescent ravings provoke me into an intemperate response. ‘There’s no need to use abusive language,’ I said carefully. ‘It may be that the page which you stole from my office bore a certain resemblance to a small section in the final version of my novel but that was an unhappy accident.’

  ‘Word for fucking word. I checked. 100 per cent. You ripped that poor dead bastard off.’

  ‘If you had seen the other pages of the … source material in question, you would be aware that there were huge variations between the rough notes that Peter wrote and the final version of my novel. terpsichore 4:2 was mine. It is mine. You have to believe me on this, Doug.’

  He was staring at me with what seemed to be an inexpressible disappointment in his eyes. He took a deep breath, as if to speak but then shook his head once more and looked away. ‘Your whole life is fiction,’ he finally said. ‘Every day that you live is a lie.’

  ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’

  ‘What you did was a terrible thing to do. I shouldn’t give a toss but, you know what hurts? I’m part of the lie. I’m in on your scam. I’m every bit as fucking bent as you are.’

  ‘It was just one page, Doug.’ An unattractively wheedling note had entered my voice.

  ‘Bollocks. You know that’s bollocks, and so do I.’

  Suddenly I began to understand the source of my son’s certainty. ‘You had more, didn’t you? You gave me one page but there was more.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Where are they, Doug? What have you done with them?’

  ‘I burnt them. It’s your life. I’m not going to tell anyone.’

  ‘Does Zoe know?’

  ‘Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. What kind of scumbag would I be to lay the guilt on her?’ He stood up. ‘Relax, Dad,’ he said, pushing the pile of cuttings across the table towards me. ‘Enjoy your success.’

  ‘You’ll come to the launch party?’

  ‘Yeah, Dad. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  Moments later, I heard him trudging up the stairs and closing his bedroom door behind him.

  * * *

  Top Ten Literary Slogans

  1. GET BLACK ON WHITE – Guy de Maupassant

  2. SOAK AND WAIT – Arthur Koestler

  3. WRITE FOR YOURSELF – J. D. Salinger

  4. ONLY CONNECT – E. M. Forster

  5. BEAR SERENELY WITH IMITATORS – Rudyard Kipling

  6. KILL YOUR DARLINGS – William Faulkner

  7. IDEAS ARE ACTION – Gustave Flaubert

  8. HIDE YOUR GOD – Paul Valéry

  9. STYLE IS CHARACTER – Joan Didion

  10. DO NOT HURRY; DO NOT REST – Johann von Goethe

  * * *

  39

  I want him at the party. I want that above all else. At that moment, when father and son stand together on publication day, the world will see a double victory: I will not only be re-established as a significant star in the literary firmament but also, after its recent Strindbergian phase, my family life will be seen to be back on course. I had hoped that Marigold would be open-hearted enough to set aside our differences for one night and play the writer’s wife but she has declined my invitation and, to avoid the embarrassment of answering questions from journalists, has become absorbed in a project to transform the ch’i of a chateau in the Lot-et-Garonne district of France.

  Disappointing as it is that my wife is not prepared to share my moment of success, there will be certain advantages to the situation. The father bringing up a son alone has recently become a figure much favoured by public commentators, While the truth of my situation is somewhat more complex, celebrity paints with a broad brush: I have no doubt that the image of a dad and his boy, united by an awkward but genuine male pride in one another, will play well in the public prints and perhaps speak eloquently to the more fastidious and egocentric of my writerly compadres who have shied from parenthood like a nervous horse from a stream.

  The party for Gregory Keays is to be a major event, perhaps the most significant social celebration the literary world will see this year. Encouraged by a series of none-too-subtle hints from Fay Duckworth to the effect that it was far from certain that the next Gregory Keays novel would be offered to them, my publishers have elected to mark the publication of terpsichore 4:2 in a gratifyingly extravagant fashion.

  Through my freelance publicist, I had suggested that a suitable venue for the party would be stylishly dark and subterranean. The publishers have obliged with Paradise, a Soho Club whose three-floor design is a louche but amusing reworking of the Fall. Last month, I inspected the premises and found them entirely acceptable for our purposes. There are moments when a certain vulgarity is de rigueur.

  The guest list posed a more formidable challenge. At most gatherings of people connected with books, a whiff of mediocrity and disappointment hangs in the air; often, they are little more than apologetic, low-budget imitations of the grander and better parties held in the smarter quarters of Media Village. I therefore proposed that the usual army of good-hearted losers (booksellers, jobbing reviewers, middle-order librarians, ‘trade journalists’, arts diarists, wholesalers, compilers of bestseller lists, foreign rights sellers, publishing line managers, deputy culture editors and so on) should be excluded in favour of real, non-literary celebrities.

  Soon we had a crop of high-credibility thespians anxious to be seen in the right social circle
s. Film folk from Hollywood to Soho quickly fell in line, followed by the bigger names from TV and Westminster, a couple of media magnates, and, to lighten the mix, some of the more amusing chefs, sports presenters and glossy mag aristos.

  Finally, we opened the sluice-gates of the literary world a few inches to include Frayn and Stoppard, the Pinters, A. S. and A. N., Rushdie and a few of the Granta gang whose reputations were still in credit. Updike, we discovered, was making a rare visit to London and might be prepared to put in an appearance, the glad news of which we carefully leaked to one of the diaries. At my insistence, invitations were sent to members of the international socialite-author set – Vidal, McInerney, Easton Ellis and one or two others – and I was confident that at least some of them would ensure that their next visit to London coincided with the big launch. A rumour circulated that one of the world’s famous literary recluses was an admirer of my novel and the more excitable scribblers began to speculate that Cormac McCarthy, Thomas Pynchon or possibly even J. D. Salinger was about to come out of hiding.

  Then there was Martin. How could he stay away? Not to be seen at my party would be professional suicide. Spiteful tongues would discuss whether he was afraid of being up-staged by a more successful contemporary or, unthinkably, that he had not even been invited in the first place. I had discovered from Tony Watson that the small man was in town and made sure that his invitation went out a few days after the rest.

  I was naturally delighted when he accepted. In a sense, today’s event is as much for him as it is for me.

  * * *

  Affirmation

  My story is an echo asking a shadow for a dance.

  * * *

  40

  It is a matter of writerly satisfaction that I shall be able to close this account with a party, a glorious and scintillating set-piece worthy of Tolstoy or Fitzgerald, in which the preceding drama, with all its colour and character, will be brought together in one last spectacular social moment. Tonight, with the regrettable exception of Marigold Keays, all the survivors from this great adventure will be there to celebrate the coming of age of my novel: Doug, Zoe, Tony Watson, Anna Matthew, Brian McWilliam, Fay Duckworth, Martin. I have even, after a certain amount of deliberation, included Pia in the guest list: she may be tempted, in time-honoured fashion, to cash in her chips and exploit her knowledge of certain intimate aspects of my past, yet somehow I doubt it. She has a certain pride and to present herself to the world as a common whore, albeit a part-time and very beautiful one, will do more harm to her reputation than it would to mine. Indeed, were I a cynical man, I might even welcome the revelation that, even during the temporary aberration that was my over-affection for Peter Gibson, my essential heterosexuality was still being expressed on a regular basis.

  A book written in blood shall be launched in an appropriate fashion. I found a way for Brian McWilliam to repay his debt.

  Tonight, as the champagne flows and the name of Gregory Keys is upon everyone’s lips, there will be an uninvited guest in Paradise. At around nine o’clock, speeches will be made, the significance of terpsichore 4:2 noted, my future success toasted. I intend to reply with a modest expression of thanks to all those who have helped me – my agent, editor and, above all, my dear wife, Marigold, who would so much liked to have been here tonight. I shall dedicate the evening to the memory of a promising student and a dear friend, Peter Gibson, whose passing was an abiding reminder of the price all writers pay for their work. Having allowed a couple of beats for the emotional force of my comments to reach the alcohol-addled brains of my congregation, I shall thank my many friends and distinguished guests who have made tonight such a memorable occasion. They will all be welcome to spend as long as they like at the party: drink, food and music would be available throughout the night.

  The dancing will begin. Some of the gathering will move from Heaven to the first basement, Limbo, where there will be dappled lights and jaunty middle-of-the-road sounds from a Venezuelan guitar combo. Others will descend yet another flight to the thud and darkness of the lower basement. What would Paradise be without Hell?

  The uninvited guest will mingle, awaiting his moment.

  Aesthetically, I would have liked the final act of closure to occur before midnight but, in the end, I have decided that there are certain occasions when one must leave details of timing and method to the experts. If it happens an hour or so into the day after publication, then so be it; often it is the flaw in a pattern which reveals its full artfulness.

  He will wander from Heaven, where I intend to hold court throughout the evening, to the easy Latin sunniness of Limbo and down to the heat, darkness and noise of Hell. He will choose his moment and, to tell the truth, it would not have worried me too much if he had chosen his subject as well. In a sense, almost everyone in Paradise – coke-brained film exec, scurfy critic, sneeringly resentful writer – is worthy of his attentions. An irritatingly supercilious look here, a drink-spilling jog of the elbow there, and that would be it.

  But no. I have created the work. Why should I leave the life (the loss of life) to the whim of a psychopathic stranger? He might end up taking out some publishing executive, a pointless and demeaning act of bathos that would be a cruel enactment of the very downbeat ending which publishers famously loathe.

  One hour a day, you have to hate everybody. Down the years, I have obeyed Martin’s injunction. Pia. Tony Watson. McWilliam, Doug. My agent. My editor. Virtually any published novelist who is my age or younger. Martin himself. They have all played their part in the creative flowering of my hate. Now, as they dance and laugh and drink upon the soul of my work, one of them will pay.

  The anonymous guest will choose Hell. He will move into the heaving, thumping, wild-eyed throng. Swaying and smiling like any other zonked-out reveller, he will watch his prey through the blackest of dark glasses. He will see Pia, making up to the man whom her trained professional eye has identified as being of most professional interest to her. Doug will be there, pacing the floor in the absurd silver trainers he has bought for the occasion. A flash of almost phosphorescent white from Martin’s proud new teeth will catch his eye. The music will be pumping, urgent, loud. Sweat and laughter will be in the air. He will move closer, so close that, for a fraction of a second, his subject will know that something really rather terrible is about to happen. Too late. He will make sure that, when they come, the two quick, muffled detonations will be perfectly syncopated to the beat of the music. Dg. Dg. By the time, the partygoers realize that the figure crumpling to the floor is not demonstrating the latest clubland dance step – the Jerk, the Sag, the Totter, the Bleed – my guest will be on his way, the cool night air outside against his face.

  Up in Heaven, I shall hear the first scream. Then the music will stop. There will be another scream and raised voices.

  And I will know that, at last, my work is truly published.

  I can hardly wait to write it all up.

  * * *

  The Writer Speaks of … Writing

  A great writer is just simply a martyr whom the stake cannot kill.

  Honoré de Balzac

  A writer’s true gift is his temperament.

  Ford Madox Ford

  Never trust the artist. Trust the tale.

  D. H. Lawrence

  Fiction is written in last year’s blood.

  Bernice Rubens

  We write books because our children aren’t interested in us. We address ourselves to an anonymous world because our wives plug their ears when we speak to them.

  Milan Kundera

  All plots lead to death.

  Don DeLillo

  * * *

  It was not muffled at all. It was more of a sort of dry crack, they said – like someone treading on a branch in a forest. And it was not in the darkness of the basement in that sad, Eighties-throwback club but on the ground floor near the entrance. No one thought to come downstairs and stop the music until about a couple of minutes after it had actually happened. I was chil
ling out on one of those floor-level sofa things, drinking a beer and wondering when it would be all right for me to get the hell out of the place, when suddenly the DJ kills the sound and says, ‘We’re gonna take some time out there because there’s been some kinda accident upstairs.’

  ‘Dad.’

  According to Zoe, I actually said that word. For sure, I thought it. I stood up and ran for the stairs. I just knew, as you do, that, if something bad had happened, it would be to my father. He had been walking the edge for too long. Sooner or later he had to fall.

  I made my way up the two flights in double-quick time. On the ground floor, I noticed that people were making their way towards the door – like, don’t let’s get involved in any unpleasantness, darling – but, in the far corner, there was this little cluster of guests looking down to the floor, one or two of them kneeling. A thin stream of blood was trickling across the floor.

  Even before I pushed my way through, I knew what I would find.

  He was on his side. The jacket of his precious cream linen suit was a dark crimson mess. His face was against the floor as if he were listening really carefully to something that was happening downstairs. His skin was all pale and glassy and the only sign that there was any life left in him was a slow twitching movement of the jaws, like he was trying to say something, to squeeze just a few more words out before he went. Soon his eyes glazed over and there was a sort of shudder of his whole body from head to toe, then stillness. Someone behind me was pulling at my shoulder. I heard a voice saying that I was his son. Zoe and some woman I have never met led me away. When I looked back, they were laying a table-cloth over him. What a way to go.