MICHEL FABER HAS ENTERED THE ranks of those writers whose work creates its own absolute. His bold fiction has, in the course of seven absorbing, enriching books, made a permanent mark, its incandescence handled with brilliance.
So, it is apt that
he has been chosen to add to Canongate's new-fashioned Myths, retelling the story of Prometheus, who stole fire from Zeus's sphere to give to mankind, igniting a chain of cause and effect. Since neither Aeschylus nor Shelley, nor Robert Bridges, all of whom previously forged the myth into poetry, was available for the job, Faber has followed in their slipstream with pyromaniacal zeal and diabolical aplomb.
The keyword is wit. This book is deliciously dark and witty, even hilarious, in parts. Theo Griepenkerl (not a name you can say without smiling), an academic on a mission to Iraq, is the novel's hero. When he visits a looted museum on the lookout for treasures, his world – almost literally – crashes around his ears, during a bomb attack; then opportunity rears its head.
As he makes for the basement to hide in the toilets (his guide, the curator, already killed), Theo finds that a heavily pregnant bas-relief-goddess has spilled her offspring – nine scrolls of papyrus – among the shards of shattered stone. Theo gazes. You picture him stooping. Temptation is all – and who is Theo to resist.
Thus begins a comical chain of events as our hero, flying home to Toronto, scrolls packed away in his luggage, embarks on the turbulence of his self-inflicted, rollercoaster fate. First, his girlfriend summarily ditches him – he imagines her writhing in passion with a handsome brainless hunk (Theo's physique is unimpressive). Then he struggles to sell the idea of a translation of the scrolls, despite their apparently world-shocking nature.
The scrolls are dynamite, an eyewitness take on Jesus's final days, his crucifixion and its aftermath, written by Malchus, a Christian convert who lost his ear to one of Jesus's disciples in the Garden of Gethsemane. They're hot, a burning-potato publishers shy away from grasping. Besides, aren't they stolen?
As a result of his weakened position, Theo trades off the rights for a pittance, despite his conviction, correct as it turns out, that The Fifth Gospel will blast other bestsellers into oblivion.
Faber's narrative tracks Theo's book tour of America – readings and signings, a TV chat show – made under the name of Theo Grippin (pronounceability being all). The TV director has a problem with Malchus's seeming innuendo during a reading from the text: "'Excuse me,' said the director…'The Barbara Khun Show is a mainstream show. We gotta be careful with gay stuff. Johnny Mathis is fine. AIDS is OK, within reason…bring 'em on. But gay sex with Jesus…'"
And worse ensues, for in Malchus's version, Christ on the cross cries out: "Please, somebody, please finish me." This is hardly the starry exit Christian readers, especially those of a fundamentalist disposition, will expect. In a chapter titled "Judges", Faber releases Theo, sending him from the boredom of his hotel room, into the maze of Amazon's website, looking for feed-back to puff his ego. He finds mixed reactions, all building the story, with a wry inevitability, towards its conclusion.
The Promethean myth for readers who know it, of course, gives the ending away, but readers new to the chase will derive much pleasure from Faber's handling of the material, moving obliquely, as he does, around the original, furnishing Theo with moments of bliss and self-aggrandisement (bedding a stoically chilling publicist), holding out hopes of a starry ascent.
But there's also a flatness to the Americans here – the author reducing them to a collection of characteristics. Paradoxically this makes Theo stand out, far more in our face as real flesh and blood, an essential requirement of the denouement.
Other matters, however, persist, ones less easy to resolve in a positive light: Malchus's behaviour, as described in the course of his gospel, seems, in places, hard to credit. Theo's behaviour in the novel's concluding chapter is equally odd. A genial suspension of disbelief will go a long way here, as might poor Theo, but then again…
The full article contains 711 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
