Simon Kinch’s Two Sketches of Disjointed Happiness (Salt Publishing, 2017) is described in its blurb as being a ‘daring, experimental novel’: in a sense, perhaps every novel can be described as experimental because a writer cannot hope to know exactly every eventuality of every page before they’ve sat down to write. Kinch’s writing here is, presumably, described thus because of its playing with two parallel time lines in the main character’s life. It’s an intriguing device, for sure; it’s experimental, yes maybe, but daring, no: unless this attribute of the work can be bestowed upon the author’s ability to invest little to no passion or zest, at all, into the main character.
It is difficult to know the author’s intentions in this respect. What we’re able to work with, as readers, is that his main character is given the name of Granville: a dull and dreary, old-fashioned name, not becoming of the twenty-three year old summer traveller who reaches a point of decision making following a text message from his girlfriend, Alyson — return home to Madison, Wisconsin, or ignore his European visa expiration and travel back south from the French-Spanish border, via Barcelona, and on to Sevilla. Granville throws the phone into the sea and chooses the latter. En route south he has his bag stolen (though fortuitously the author has had the foresight to ensure that Granville tucks his credit card into his shirt pocket beforehand). Small details matter, and herein lies an issue with the set up of Kinch’s novel: Granville has his bag stolen and all that it holds, including his passport. Kinch writes as much early on: ‘No satchel, no wallet, no laptop, no passport.’ (p.11). Yet, the set up of the novel relies on one version of Granville travelling back north, after this, via Paris and London to the U.S. (presumably needing his stolen passport) and the other version of him staying on in Sevilla. Small details matter, and this reader was distracted by the author’s oversight for a good portion of the rest of the book.
Kinch writes his chapters in very short form: just a few pages each. By the time we quickly reach Chapter 7, Granville has an epiphany whilst sitting at a river jetty in the district of Triana in Sevilla: he feels the sun heat the hairs on his skin and this is the moment of small rupture. From the next chapters on we settle into the knowledge that alternating chapters are going to document the parallel lives of Granville: one version of him returns home to pick up a dull life of being an office temp, sorting invoices for an accountancy firm; the other version of him takes up a position working for a local property owner, Señora Rosales, organising her diary and liaising with foreign holiday-makers for her, as a native English speaker. Both versions of Granville are administrators. Both versions of his life begin to intersect: situations that occur in one version start to mirror themselves in his other life. The construct is fine enough, but the lack of character in Granville begins to aggravate.
Along both versions of his lives, he interacts with various women he meets (whilst resisting the thought of making contact again with his erstwhile girlfriend, Alyson). Granville meets Jess, a young woman from Newcastle, in Sevilla, and drinks with her. He meets Clara, who works at the local hostel, and he drinks with her. He eats and drinks with Señora Rosales at the apartment she’s lent him. In his other life, Granville develops a relationship of sorts with Laura, who also works at the accountancy office, and with whom he has lunch, and the occasional Friday evening drinks. In one life or the other, Granville drinks plenty of coffee or beers, he smokes, he drinks more coffee, he smokes more. (Douglas Coupland’s Generation X, without the colour, briefly crosses the mind). Granville wonders why Alyson had sent him a text message implying that they were breaking up (‘. . . we need to talk’): the matter is obvious to the reader — dishwater is less boring than Granville. He fails to act on Clara’s advances, leaves Jess to herself, and doesn’t get excited by his relations with Laura. The reader is left to wonder if Granville’s dullness is intentional, or if this is a fault of the author and his technique.
On a similar note, writing as an American, Kinch sprinkles in various Americanisations of word or phrase use or of cultural reference, yet the feel of the writing is that of a British English writer: the syntax plays into this hand and there are words that are spelt this way too (e.g. centre), which would imply that either there has been an editorial slip in this respect or that the author has mixed his versions of English. Small details matter.
There is an attempt at such small detailings throughout; however, many of these are lost on this reader. For example, whilst the idea of the ‘flâneur’ is explicitly introduced (Granville observes the almost theatrical aspects of street life taking place around, and almost for, him), Kinch attaches weighty importance to Granville’s brief eye contact with a man with a moustache at the guest house he stays at in Sevilla. Later, Granville sees this man again at a street bar. The man engages in a fraught conversation with a woman and Granville is intrigued, hooked in, but he doesn’t know why and he can only really try to grasp their body language, not being proficient in Spanish. The small detail of the importance of the man with the moustache is not apparent.
Towards this last portion of the book, Kinch’s narrative begins to unravel. A few chapters earlier, his tight construct of alternating lives breaks down, as does his use of present tense for the U.S. Granville version and the past tense for his Sevilla life. The final two chapters are (somewhat pretentiously) actually just one. The idea is to blur the time lines back together again, but Kinch has attached importance to various aspects of the story where no great significance can be perceived by this reader. It is, perhaps, a question of reader engagement.
The title of Kinch’s novel suggests a form of contentedness with the lots that have been dealt to Granville and his, albeit ‘disjointed’, happinesses. However, Granville lacks sufficient wit to perceive the relationships potentially forming around him, let alone understand the potential of relations he’s engaging in himself, so it is a stretch to believe that there is some form of contentedness, albeit flavoured with existential concern, at play. Ultimately, Two Sketches of Disjointed Happiness is an artistic attempt at a simple construct, weighed with importances that only the author might well see, foregoing some simple, small but important, details in the process.