Sipped Ink vol 7 issue 3

Hello, and welcome to what will (in all likelihood) be a somewhat brief and disappointingly cursory look at the week’s section of A Brief History of Seven Killings. I apologise in advance, but I’ve been knocked about quite a bit by a cold this week, and nothing above my diaphragm has worked very well since Tuesday¹. This has led to a very odd ‘reading’ experience for me: unable to really concentrate on the page, I turned to the audiobook version of the novel this week, for a couple of late night / early morning sessions. It could be the temperature I’ve been running, or the fact that I unwittingly had the audiobook set to 1.2 speed for some time, but for the most part, this section of the novel seemed to wash through me rather than me feeling as though I was actively engaging with it. As such, I’m almost certain that what follows here will be less than the novel deserves, and also less than you deserve dear reader — please accept my apologies. I hope you’ll bear with me as I consider the composition of each complete sentence a minor triumph.

OK, here it goes. My usual approach to writing these newsletters is to look at the notes I’ve taken whilst reading, flesh those thoughts out a little, and then tie them together into something that makes an argument. This week I’m going to forego that last step, but I can at least build a few of my notes into full sentences. Let’s see how we get on.

The relationship triangle between Nina, Kimmy, and their mother is complex. At least in this case, we see how prejudice against Rastafarians is also class-based (in Nina’s mother’s outright rejection of the Singer, but seeming acceptance of Ras Trent). Nina is given a real moment of action in which she rejects being verbally, emotionally, and eventually physically attacked by striking back.

Louis Johnson’s assertion that he and Barry Diflorio are ‘two sides of the same coin’ (p214), and Barry’s rejection of that idea, underscore the CIA’s dangerous propensity for meddling in foreign affairs without so much as a unified vision or coherent plan.

Earlier in the novel we have encountered Josey Wales lamenting the lack of father figures for many Jamaican men (see e.g. p42). Here in Papa-Lo’s chapter we see Papa in the role of a kind of mentor, but one who is equally lamenting of the course upon which his ‘sons’ are set. An inversion of power takes place in this chapter, with Josey now on top and Papa-Lo reduced to someone whom the police feel empowered to pull off the street and detain.

We see another instance of Alex Pierce’s ineptitude, when he suddenly realises he hasn’t prepared any questions to ask the Singer. The fact that he chooses to leave the house at the moment he does can be read as either enormously fortunate for him, or as Alex once again drifting in one direction whilst the action of the novel is pointed in another.

Nina’s recklessness is a direct result of how hopeless she considers her circumstances in Jamaica to be. The reader is invited to make comparisons between her actions and the paths that other Jamaicans in the novel are walking, whether by choice or lack of choice.

Josey Wales’s treatment of Demus, Bam-Bam et al casts them in the role of wild animals. He cages them and keeps them hungry, and then — when he has a use for them — he ensures they are equipped and motivated to carry out his will.

The moment we’ve been waiting for arrives more than 230 pages into the novel, and is another bravura piece of stylisation by Marlon James. The choice to present the action in verse simultaneously provides the off-kilter feeling of the drugs the assailants have taken, and contrasts with the violence they’re committing: uncontrolled, graceless, haphazard. A similar contrast is provided by the presentation of the Singer as unafraid even when facing death. He is granted equanimity by virtue of faith, where Bam-Bam et al have nothing to believe in.

The immediate result of the attack on the Singer is that the gang of attackers disintegrates and scatters to the wind, overwhelmed by the chaos they have generated. Secondly, we see that Demus suddenly feels uniquely alone and afraid in Kingston. He is rejected by those he knew, and finds no refuge at the place he once stayed. The desperate futility of his position is only underscored when he learns that the Singer and Rita have survived.

As the section closes, we are witness to first Demus’s disorienting death and then the brutal, disturbing killing of Bam-Bam. James again employs a blurred line between life and afterlife in the novel, with Sir Arthur as a kind of touchstone for the reader.

I’m actually going to pause there, and assess Kim Clarke’s opening chapter of the novel’s third section in full next week. Hopefully, by then I’ll be able to more easily string a coherent thought together!

Before I close, however, I wanted to include some notes sent to me by one of our number (DL) who read more closely this week than I did, and was kind enough to send their thoughts:

I feel that some of the very best of James’ writing in A Brief History… is reserved for Sir Arthur Jennings’s shocking and so sad summaries. At the close of each section, following the exhausting narratives of the rudeboys on the run, these reflections are, strangely, resting points. The reader takes a breath. And sighs.

Biblical references abound in Section 2 — from Exodus and Revelations — alongside references to cop movies (Dirty Harry) and cartoons (Bugs Bunny). This weird mix is all around them, as ever-present as the trash: the Brillo boxes, soft drink bottles, Palmolive liquid, and ‘dead rats trapped’ in the Garbagelands (p247). The fate of all the rudeboys: ‘we is the rat’ states Demus (p234).

DL also forwarded on an article from The Times regarding Raheem Sterling’s youth in Jamaica. You can read an excerpt without a subscription here (or, if you have an Apple News+ subscription, you can read the article here). My thanks in particular to DL for these contributions, but also to everyone who dropped me a note this week; sorry I was worse than usual at replying.

FWIW, I absolutely recommend checking out the audiobook version of the novel. Each of the narrators is voiced by a different reader, all of whom help to lend the characters personality. Also, it’s a genuine pleasure to listen to the Jamaican vernacular in full flowing speech, not parsed by an inner ear unused to its rhythms and pronunciation. Here are a pair of links (where you can also hear a sample): Audible / Scribd

I hope you are well, and that you’re still enjoying the novel (even though this week’s reading contained some pretty disturbing material). I’ll see you back here next Sunday to discuss the book up to p395.

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1. Since this is 2021, I’m obligated to state here that I’ve twice tested negative for COVID-19, and I can assure you that this email is not infectious.  ↩︎