Riddley Walker, a book review

Following is a short review of Riddley Walker, by Russell Hoban; for a slightly more in-depth look, check out my post at Retrospeculative…

Riddley Walker is a struggle to read; some people might find that reading sections out loud helps, and it was designed that way, written in phonetic vernacular, with a British accent in mind (and, to be specific, an accent from the county of Kent). Punctuation is ignored, with the exception of periods. There is a limited vocabulary; so, as the reader progresses through the novel, it becomes easier to decipher the text, a first-person narrative by the protagonist, Riddley Walker, who is considered a literate man in his world although he is only twelve years old.

The book is written in a manner that forces the reader to slow down in order to demystify the story; just as Riddley Walker must slowly puzzle things out for himself (by the way, the names of characters in the book are representations of their personalities: Riddley Walker, Fister Crunchman, Abel Goodparley, etcetera). I assume that the book was purposely written so that the reader is forced to sound some sections aloud in order to comprehend the meaning; in Riddley’s world, information is shared orally, and Riddley’s writings form the possibility of a re-invented media.

The reader soon realizes that the events take place in England (‘Inland’) sometime after an apocalyptic, nuclear event (it is stated in the novel that over 2,400 years have passed since the apocalypse, but that seems too long a time for the slight degradation in language; after all, it is still recognizable. There are many misguided ‘facts’ within the novel and I suspect that less time has passed than what is stated). Riddley’s world is slowly revealed through the mists of confusion: there are struggles between agricultural groups and hunter-gatherers, wild dog-packs terrorize the countryside, and the government distributes its politico-mythic messages using portable puppet theatres (politically revamped Punch and Judy shows).

The plot is interesting, but much of the enjoyment comes from untangling the language; it immerses the reader, who must ‘riddle’ things out as s/he ‘walks’ through the story.

There is a short glossary at the end of the book, but if you’d like some further help while reading, the sites listed below are useful (I found that reading a chapter and then perusing the annotations, while flipping through the pages of the chapter again, solidified the story).

Recommended; but be forewarned, it is probably not a novel to take for a casual read on the beach this summer.

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A couple of resources (that also contain links to other resources):

Riddley Walker Annotations: with chapter-by-chapter notes and much more.

Russell Hoban’s official website

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Norman

It was a beautiful day yesterday, and I had a couple of hours to myself.

I was waiting for my wife and daughter (Cathy and Brynne) by the Strawberry Hills movie theatre (they were watching Iron Man III, which didn’t appeal to me). I spent about a half-hour at Chapters, discovered a few books I might like to read but didn’t buy anything, and then I went outside and walked until I found a bench in the shade where I could sit and peacefully puzzle through a few pages of Riddley Walker.

I was making some real headway through the novel (either I was beginning to catch on to the language, or it becomes easier as the book progresses) and was reading with a studious intensity, but I eventually realized that a pair of legs was stopped in front of me, and I looked up from the book and into a smiling face.

© Craig Hitchens, artist

A man stood in front of me, waiting patiently for my attention. He was dressed in apricot kurta and shalwar, and wore sandals on his feet. His white hair and beard were close-cut. I think he was a bit older than me, possibly in his mid-sixties (although when I look in the mirror I think I look older than me too).

“Hello,” he said. “I saw you sitting here, and came over to meet you.” His accent was thick, and it was difficult to understand him over the roar of traffic that was only a few dozen meters away.

I stood to shake his hand, but he waved me back down: “Relax,” he said with a smile.

We chatted for a few moments, communicating somewhat effectively. He did most of the talking; he was sharing his philosophy, his approach to living the right sort of existence.

“You’re a nice person,” he told me, which made me feel pretty good. “What is your name?”

I told him, and asked for his in return. His name was long, and although he had me pronounce it one syllable at a time along with him, I was hopelessly lost by the time he had finished. He flashed a wide smile and said, “I have many friends who cannot pronounce it. They call me Norman.”

The name seemed anomalous, but oddly fitting: “Okay,” I said, “it’s nice to meet you, Norman.” We shook hands again (he liked to shake hands; we must have performed this ritual a half-dozen times during our conversation).

We talked some more; well, he did most of the talking, and I did a lot of nodding, but managed to toss enough thoughts into the air to prove that I was listening, understanding, and that we were, for the most part, of one mind with his philosophy. We certainly agreed that God isn’t a single, separate entity; God is everything.

Norman spoke with a quiet passion; I didn’t get everything he said, but he talked about positive and negative forces (whether he meant right and wrong, or something similar to yin and yang was unclear, but I nodded), being in accord with God, and many other things.

Soon, it was almost time for the movie to end, and I said my farewells to Norman.

He shook my hand and said, “Think, and you will be rich. We will meet again, okay?”

I said, “Do you want to make plans to meet?”

“No,” he said with a smile. “We will meet again.”

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