Reviews are written of a published book. It’s written by book critics for the readers to make up their minds about the book and decide whether they want to read it or not. Reviews of unpublished books (I don’t know what such reviews are called) however, are written for the author and not the readers. So given the dichotomy, how should one, or how should I, alter my tone and direction of criticism so that the author publishes a more complete version of his book, and in that way reaches the hands of a few happy readers, then say, disappointed ones.
Let’s start with what this book is about: a narrator named Marvin (the protagonist) recounts his turbulent life, specially his childhood, due to his father’s secretive wealth and motives. Born to a wealthy family, his father is one of London’s affluent figures but at home he’s a typical one – a cruel husband and a cold father. To make up for loneliness and suffering, Marvin befriends a girl named Tory, who is kind, acts elderly, and helps Marvin do the things he must do. The book is divided between Marvin’s passages of intense monologue in the present and equally as chaotic story that he’s narrating of his past. It’s a sad story, and a sadder ending, but one which the author tries to paint differently.
I had only met Abbas a few days ago, that one morning after exchanging a few heart-felt texts about writing, he sent me a manuscript of this book. They say there’s a first time for everything, and I should mention that in this review there’re going to be many firsts. It was the first time I had received a manuscript to read. So feeling all giddy, I went to my favorite café in the afternoon and took my kindle with me. In about the next couple of hours, I managed to read first two chapters. My first impressions were: Abbas must’ve lied about him being the author for this prose here is too mature, and why is this narrator so damn irritating? With a frustrated and bemused head, I got up to pay the bill but realized I was some cash short. I called my friend, who luckily was nearby; and he came, had the last cup of Zaffran tea with me, paid the bill, and we left.
The story only really begins from the third chapter onwards, and by mid-chapters it just starts running in every direction. In chapter three, we are introduced to the character of Tory and Marvin’s parents. A distant father and a loving mother, I didn’t find anything new there; but in Tory I found a most appealing company. Her sudden appearance is kept mysterious, though, as Marvin can’t figure out how she came to be there and his parents deny her existence at all. She is Marvin’s first in many areas: a first person to really be with him and understand his pain, and also a first person to take his virginity. Despite the author’s promise, I remained sadly un-quenched as this incomplete romance was never mentioned again.
It was four thirty in the morning when I was reading The Sickman again. I couldn’t sleep past five hours at night (still so), and the earlier I slept the earlier I woke up. As I was reading the book, so to pass the hours that it gets normal enough for me to go my morning walk, I got a boner. The scene between Marvin’s first sight and feel of them, and Tory’s generous and inviting show, was just too good for me. I had to leave for my walk earlier, otherwise it would’ve been a bad start of the day for me - you know what I mean. But I kept thinking about it while walking as well (I’m in a virgin in all things sexual, so don’t judge me) and texted Abbas (a reader getting to text the author to clarify points - wow) asking, “how can breasts be both soft and firm?” He replied, “firm means not saggy.” And to be honest, I did feel a bit ‘kochrayi’ (embarrassed) there. But again, a virgin so…
Life got busy. My whole family started preparing for our upcoming, and rather abrupt, trip to Karachi and The Sickman had to wait. However, I did go to visit Abbas in person one day. We had a meaty and intimate conversation for around three hours. We shared our lives, discussed philosophy and religion, talked about books, and explored reading as a writer and the process of writing a book. Abbas has been the only person who has firmly impressed and taught me after Amaan. We also discussed some of my favorite lines and passages from his book and it was a surreal moment for me – to be able to share quotes from a book to its author in person. Amazing!
Once in Karachi, I only started the book after my family had left back for home and I had my life to myself once again. It must have been a section with Tory from where I resumed reading The Sickman, for it impressed me just the same as it did on the first reading that afternoon. I texted Abbas on my way back from the reading session on that good old bench, placed perfectly under the tree on the hill, where the people on their morning walks are kept distant (how better!) and where the air breezes merrily and the sun shines after half an hour of its rise and is thereby more pressing in its warmth; where one’s feet touch the grass, only it is too cold to do that and the grass is but dry and thorny now, where one can read without any interruptions and get literally lost in a book. I only come back to life when I lift my head up from the book I am absorbed reading, and it feels like I’ve come out of a waking dream. Anyway, I text Abbas as I smoked away a lit Capstan, asking had he really written the book himself? He inquired the reason for my astonishment, and I said ‘almost perfection’. This compliment, however, as I came to know the next day would only be reserved for the prose, and for Tory too, but not for the book as a whole.
“A friend stabs you from the front” said Oscar Wilde, and I’ll be as blunt with my words as unfiltered they pour to my fingers. The first two chapters of The Sickman set a tone reminiscent of Dostoyevsky’s ‘Underground Notes’. Its manic narration, canceling and refuting earlier remarks while making newer, grander claims all the while, with a sickening mental proposition and a malice targeted toward oneself. I felt irritated by it, as mentioned earlier, but I was damn impressed also. Line after line, I was reading relentless statements thrown at me – provocative and threatening. Then Tory enters the story and everything calms down and becomes beautiful. Only to become chaotic again when the plot gets underway. I didn’t mind the early effort for behind the nonsensical narration and intended incoherency, there was something vital, something vulnerable, something pointing. However, when the plot revealed itself to be just as relentless, where Murphy’s law applied but in a distasteful manner, as everything that could’ve happened, did happen. I’m not a fan of thrillers, except in movies, and a thriller that doesn’t work is highly disappointing. Marvin’s troubled little childhood quickly becomes a devastating one in mere few chapters, during which so much extravagant things happen that it’s hard to keep track of. Okay, I need to calm down.
On my part, I would take the responsibility as well. The narrator’s unceasing firing of fluxing statements pushed me toward a ‘hunting read’ of the book, where I read the book in search of parts that made sense and were crucial to the story; there were many in the first half, but hardly any in the second. Therefore, I missed a lot on plot by being habituated into that reading style. And since so much happened in so few a chapters, I almost gave up on knowing all the details. As any reader would have experienced, Abbas himself included, that once a book fails you with its plot, a poignant reader remains with only one aim: to finish the book as quickly as possible. Or some brutal readers just stop reading the book right there and then. I finished the book. And I am glad I did, since the last chapter calmed things down despite the absence of Tory. Unfortunately, it also deviated a lot from the story. The final chapter felt like it jumped a few chapters to reach a conclusion that needed some story building prior to it.
I hated the father figure to begin with, and to see him get so much of the story angered me. Marvin’s mother remained bitterly unexplored, and Tory left most tragically where she could’ve stayed, even beside the great figure at the end of the novel. The setting in London didn’t sit right with me either, but since I am still ignorant of Abbas’s background, he might have had a good reason to choose London as its place. I am also not a fan of first-person narrations (although I have read some good books with it, Diop’s ‘At night all blood is black’) and although some passages blew my mind, on the whole it remained unconvincing. The switching of characters, or narrators, while a first person speech is going on, is really confusing for the reader. In the middle section, Marvin’s father becomes the narrator and toward the end of the book, a doctor – and it took me a while to adjust to that. Finally, my main drawbacks from the book are that the plot and the story, from its beginning to its end, remains underdeveloped. The story doesn’t justify its end, and less so all that happens within it. It feels like Marvin didn’t become a madman by the events of his life, but he became a madman first and then told this extravagant and inconsistent story to mirror his madness. I also felt a disconnect between Marvin the narrator and Marvin the protagonist. Particularly in the earlier chapters, Marvin the child fails to resemble Marvin the narrator, and as the story progresses, they become two different characters on the whole.
A writer, or any person in my opinion, should exercise restraint – specially when he or she is interacting with others. And a book is a one way interaction that reaches many people. What we are within - need hardly come out in its raw form. Our desires and thoughts are base and provocative, our actions and our words don’t have to be so. A novel doesn’t just convey the writer’s perspective about life but does it by wrapping it in a beautiful, well thought-out story, so well designed that one can’t differentiate it from a fated life. It brings the reader to tears; the important lessons and the intricate story combined. The Sickman sadly falls short. As potent as its impressive prose and ‘almost perfect’ sentences, diction, and passages are, the story and the plot let it down, and the theme feels rather enforced at the end. And personally, I missed Tory and I would’ve put her at the center and written a love story instead. I would, however, confidently put The Sickman amidst my collection of books for it deserves to called a ‘literary fiction’ – unlike Zakaria’s books. All in all, I am hoping that my first pre-published review becomes of use unlike my other post-published ones. I give ‘The Sickman’ two and a half stars – earnest for a second read, however.
January 2, 2025