The Giant, O'Brien - Hilary Mantel

'Mantel is one of few novelists who come very close 

to bridging the gap between poetry and prose' 

The aptly titled The Giant, O’Brien, turned out to be a very good introduction to Hilary Mantel for me. It is, of course, about an Irish giant named Charlie O’Brien, fleeing the cultural squalor of his rural country home in Derry (along with his band of follow-ons) to be exhibited in London by his ‘agent’ Joe Vance as ‘the tallest man in the world’, a marvel of the eighteenth century. His path eventually crosses with a renowned surgeon, a ‘bold experimentalist’, who wants to get his hands on the giant’s corpse, once he is deceased, in order to study the anatomy of the ‘freak’.

In spite of its being ever so lightly based on a true story, Mantel explains in a note at the back of the book that her giant is one out of legend, and that the real man ‘bears little resemblance to the giant of this story, since he probably suffered from a pituitary tumour and may have been mentally retarded’. The Charlie O’Brien of the novel is, on the other hand, a confident and skilled orator, an artist of the spoken word, of the mythological story. His eloquence and perfect manner are endearing. He is thoughtful, empathic and highly intelligent. It is his perpetually growing body that fails him as we progress through the narrative, rather than his mind. His tragedy is in his stature.

The storytelling becomes an important leitmotif through the novel, recurring frequently as a method by which conflict can be avoided. O’Brien himself is described as a bard, and as such, his entourage put great stock in the tales he tells them when tempers have begun to flair out of control. It is a distraction welcomed by all, as like little children they frequently interrupt the speaker to suggest what they think might happen next.

And when storytelling begins to fail the giant, to sicken him in the face of his impending death (which reduces all effort, all hope and faith, to nothing), he tells his friends ‘You know it … Tell it yourself’. The realisation comes finally that ‘stories cannot save him’.

The giant’s decreasing health and his failure to keep on telling stories have a deeply saddening effect on the novel, but Mantel’s sense of natural humour keeps the piece alive and kicking to the end. It is the constant repartee between O’Brien and his cohorts that offers the respite from morbidity. As an example here is a passage where O’Brien and his men are discussing the value to them of purchasing a fortune-telling pig to accompany O’Brien as entertainment to the public (yes, it is literally that absurd):

‘But would you trust your fortune,’ the Giant asked, ‘if it were told by a pig?’

‘Well, I do so think,’ said Pybus. ‘For a pig won’t give you a favourable one, to get a tip.’

‘The boy reasons well,’ Joe said.

‘And if a pig said, beware of a dray coming up fast on your left and mushing you against the wall, well, you’d beware.’

‘But not if a human said it?’ the Giant asked.

‘You see, Giant,’ Pybus explained, ‘the pig wouldn’t have any interest whether it came true or no. But if a human told it you, and the dray came up and dunted in your ribs, you’d suspect that the said dray was driven by the fortune-teller’s uncle. It’s what they call a ploy. It’s to get future money off you.’

‘Well, well,’ said the Giant. ‘You seem wise in the ways of the world, all of a sudden.’

Sophistry fit for a king, and certainly fit for a novel of such intensity.

     

But what of the second protagonist of the piece, whom we have neglected up to now? What of John Hunter, the obsessive surgeon? The man who covets the very flesh and bone of our beloved O’Brien?

I found Hunter to be, in many ways, a more fascinating character than any other. Certainly he is a more interesting psychological study, a fanatical man consumed by his desire for knowledge, a man who seems to believe somewhere deep in his psyche that by gaining knowledge he will be able to bypass the degradation of ordinary mortality, who asserts on the final page that ‘I want more time.’ He is seeking a way out of the laws of physiognomy that he studies so arduously. And what is more exciting than a character as hopelessly flawed and contradictory as that? I found that I began to understand his strong desire for scientific empiricism, and to sympathise with his misguided quest for immortality.

     

Much of the charm of this fairly short novel is in the poesy of its diction. The prose is light, easy to read, yet somehow manages to achieve a deep intensity that makes every sentence worthwhile. Mantel is one of few novelists who come very close to bridging the gap between poetry and prose, screwing each sentence tight yet allowing the space required for the reader to feel that his or her presence is necessary, that he or she is a vital component in the craftsmanship of the novel. I think that in her approach to writing she encourages multiple readings, because you can always find something more, something that was hidden to you the first time around.

Please read this novel, it will not take long (it has only 211 pages). If nothing else, it will teach us the beauty that is possible in misfortune, in decadence, in downright weirdness.