I posted the following on Instagram late last night:
Any human being that can write such a sentence as that below – especially in the context it bookends… – is a saint: of emotion; of love; of wordsmithery; of so many things that are so vitally important to me. And yet it is just one of thousands that move in the same way: a quality of writing so rarely encountered; a quality of life, a quality of love... ditto.
“I walked for hours in the forest that night though I don’t remember the trees.”
Thank you @paulbesleywrite for the read of the year; maybe even the decade. Still got some way to go (after over a hundred pages, tonight); but feel that I am on the journey with you.
It was yet another sentence in his book, The Search, yet another situation, yet another way of defusing a tightly-packed grenade of emotion carefully, thoughtfully, differently, vividly, and never over-statedly, never explosively. Even the sharpest, toughest, most brutal events are gently smuggled into your brain, and only then do they suddenly evolve from pocket-sized Rembrandt etchings seen in near darkness to the most audacious, brightly-lit, multi-hued Jackson Pollock and Van Gogh canvases.
This is not writing as understatement, though. The nearest equivalent I can summon is the almost mythical MQA music streaming format: which somehow – supposedly – magically – ‘unfolds’ the music in a way that, to me, suggests rainbows of photons cascading endlessly from a single dark and empty point in space. Somehow, Paul continually throws joy and despair at you without creating a single ripple. Underneath the surface, though, depth charges blast away at your thoughts, your senses, your emotions… – without quite (goodness knows how) overwhelming (although I did – as with the greatest works of music, say – burst into spontaneous tears of joy and sorrow several times). It may be visibly contained; but the moment it tickles the first neuron, a million more will fire: his words cascading, setting off yet more, before etching themselves permanently inside you.
His writing style is a marvel; and extremely effective (as well as affecting). He is in touch with his emotions in ways that astonish… – especially, it has to be said, for a man: especially for a man in such a perceived macho role (“manliness” is the word he chooses). But it is not maudlin, nor sentimental, nor orchestrated deliberately – à la Spielberg – to deliberately shred heartstrings. If I could emulate one percent of his quietly-spoken rhythm, I would be in heaven! But I am not him; and I have not lived the tumultuous life that is conveyed in this book. It could not have been described better; nor filled with so much love, overflowing with so much heart, brimming with just so much pain.
One of the major drivers of his writing, that pulls you ever deeper into his world, is that he sees the small things – the ordinary become extraordinary, laden with depth, meaning, weight – that most people ignore (definitely at their peril) and sometimes don’t even know exist. He has an archaeological artist’s eye, a forensic photographer’s mind: and therefore knows when to stop, to unfold, to interrogate… – almost without disturbing (or wanting to) the very thing he espies.
He litters the text with his own small things, too: beautiful unstressed metaphors that thread through sentences; analogies so fresh and vital that they should smell of spring; similes that, once recognized, usher in grins as big as those his dog makes when playing, finding, working hard.
And that artist’s eye is joined to an artist’s painterly hand: scenes zuzzing from the page with life and colour and all the other words I used above! As an observer, he is hard to beat: his subtleties of a “tender and delicate temperance”, there always – if looked for… – and a constant strand; perhaps the glue knitting all we see, hear, feel and believe through him.
And yet the path Paul takes through life – sometimes pushed, sometimes pulled, bounced, tripped, beaten, and then driven along… – is utterly momentous. And he is right to celebrate it (or at least document it); and to promote the life of his perfectly-matched companion – more likely daemon – Scout: a Border collie (a breed of dog I already venerate) chiselled out of brass, jet, and the essence of those clouds that gods and angels rest upon.
Who knew how such a majestic dog grew wings? Who knew how man and beast could become one in that flight? Who knew how so little heat could create disaster in melting the wax between those feathers?
We learn so much, too. Not solely how a dog becomes a rescue dog, and his human companion a handler (an incredibly tough – and voluntary – struggle through the thorniest rites of passage for both of them); but all that is experienced and processed throughout by all of their senses; all that makes them strong; and those things that can break them, despite their fortitude and insight.
And we learn – not quite in the background; but never under-painted – about the soul who, to me, really holds everything together with her invisible mending: Paul’s partner Alison. Again, the gratitude he implies, the love, the deep friendship, grows like a slow-rolling snowball as the book moves on.
This, for me, is – weirdly (but it really was the only comparison that arose as even half valid) – on a par with Moby-Dick, my favourite book. No whales; only a sharp dissection of topographies, relationships, lives, understandings… – and from the same outsider perspective… – but it explores the mechanics of mountain rescue (and the sociology of its constituent men), from a handler’s perspective, in a way that is almost as detailed: even if it is the documentation of thought that makes this sing, and raises it far above most other books.
It’s not as long, either! Just a few gripping sleepless hours that I hope leaves you as rattled (in a good way) as I was, falling asleep as the sun rose. (Although I will, from now on, look at the SOS button on my GPS tracker with the huge reverence I already bestow on my neighbour, a member of the mountain rescue team (MRT) covering one of the most arduous areas of the country.)
This is a great, great book (written by a great, brave human being). Unclassifiable, as well… – as are all unique treasures. Buy it; donate to your local MRT if you regularly enjoy the UK’s beautiful moors, fells and mountains; and have a safe and happy Christmas!
Thank you, Paul. And thank you, Mark Richards, for the recommendation.
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