30 May 2013 02:31:24
Life on the island progresses as though written by Max as part of his new book. It is full, at least, of sex and terror. Women on the island seem to be both sexually attractive and available: the island's GP not only goes on a date with him, but – eternal fantasy of the writer – has read all his books. His time there is also riddled with the motifs that a cynical author such as Max might put into a work of horror fiction: doppelgangers, mute children, bird attacks. How reliable are his perceptions?
Max snoops on the progress of Fairfax's keenly awaited novel, and becomes obsessed with the disappearances of both Fairfax's wife and Daniel Levy, the last writer to stay on Burnt Island. ("He became delusional.") He also becomes involved with Fairfax's companion Rose, but her role and even identity are increasingly unclear. Through all this, we are reminded of the toll Max's writing took on his family back home. Finding marriage difficult and disappointing, he retreated to the fantasy of stories he could control. "Max hadn't really lived his life, just watched it pass by while making copious notes." The best assurance he can offer his son, Luke, when they speak is, "it didn't mean I didn't love you. You were both always at the back of my mind."
The framing device of the story – the novel opens with Max telling his therapist, "I feel like I'm on an island" – leads us to wonder if all this is a dream. Situations end in frustration or interruption; external noises are incorporated into Max's experience; relationships between characters are suddenly altered, then accepted without question. But in these respects, Burnt Island anticipates its effect on the reader, commenting on its own carefully detonated cliches and impeccably rendered dream logic. Even the novel's ending seems boldly foreshadowed. This playfulness is a risky technique: Max asks: "No one likes a book they can't pigeonhole, do they?" Well, they do if it's as clever and satisfying as this one.
Burnt Island is steeped in self-awareness, as a book about the process and effect of writing might be. It seems connected by literary electricity to other tales of isolation: The Shining, Pincher Martin, The Sea, The Sea. It might resist "character development", but Max does learn that, however bad things can get for him, there is always someone who has had it worse: usually another writer.
