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It starts with a dream . . .

It starts with a dream. This story, which can start everywhere and nowhere like a circle, starts, for me—and it is, after all, my story and no one else’s, never could be anyone else’s but mine—it starts with a dream I dreamed one night in May.
       The wildest kind of dream. Jane was in it, stiff and starchy as a hotel napkin. He was there too. I didn’t recognize him of course. I hardly knew him then. Just an old man to nod to in the street or smile through a politely held library door. The dream rejuvenated him, transformed him from boneless, liverspotted old beardy into Mack Sennett barman with drooping black mustache tacked to a face hangdog long and white with undernourishment.
      His face, for all that. Not that I knew it then.
      In this dream he was in the lab with Jane: Jane’s lab, of course—the dream was not prophetic enough to foretell the dimensions of his lab, which I only got to know later—that is if the dream was prophetic at all, which it may well not have been. If you get me.
      This is going to be hard.
      Anyway, she was peering into a microscope and he was feeling her up from behind. He stroked between her thighs inside the long white coat. She was taking no notice, but I was outraged, outraged when the soft veef of hands rubbing nylon stopped and I knew that his fingers had reached the uppermost part of her long legs, the place where stocking ended and soft hot private flesh—hot private flesh belonging to me—began.
      “Leave her alone!” I called from some unseen director’s corner, behind, as it were, the dream’s camera.
      He gazed up at me with sad eyes that held me, as they always do, in the bright beam of their blue. Or always subsequently did, because I had, in my real waking life at that point, never so much as exchanged a single word with him.
      “Wachet auf,” he says.
      And I obey.
      Strong light of a May morning whitening the dirty cream of cruddy curtains that we meant to change months ago.
      “Morning, babe,” I murmur. “Double Gloucester . . . my mother always said cheese dreams.”
      But she’s not there. Jane, that is, not my mother. My mother isn’t there either as a matter of fact. Certainly not. It absolutely isn’t that kind of story.
      Jane’s half of the bed is cold. I strain my ears for the hissing of the shower or the crack of teacups banged clumsily on the draining board. Everything Jane does, outside of work, she does clumsily. She has this habit of turning her head away from her hands, like a squeamish student nurse picking up a raw appendix. The hand holding a cigarette end, for instance, might stretch leftwards to an ashtray, while she will look off to the right, grinding the butt into a saucer, a book, a tablecloth, a plate of food. I have always found uncoordinated women, nearsighted women, long, gawky, awkward women, powerfully attractive.
      I have started to wake up now. The last granules of the dream fizz away and I am ready for the morning puzzle of self-reinvention. I stare at the ceiling and remember what there is to remember.

We will leave me lying there for the moment, reassembling myself. I am not entirely sure that I am telling this story the right way round. I have said that it is like a circle, approachable from any point. It is also, like a circle, unapproachable from any point.
      History is my business.
      What a way to start . . . history isn’t my business at all. I managed, at least, to stop myself from describing history as my “trade,” for which I reckon I can award myself some points. History is my passion, my calling. Or, to be more painfully truthful, it is my field of least incompetence. It is what, for the time being, I do. Had I the patience and the discipline I should have chosen literature. But, while I can read Middlemarch and The Dunciad or, I don’t know, Julian Barnes or Jay McInerney say, as happily as anyone, I have this little region missing in my brain, that extra lobe that literature students possess as a matter of course, the lobe that allows them the detachment and the nerve to talk about books (texts they will say) as others might talk about the composition of a treaty or the structure of a cell. I can remember at school how we would read together in class an ode by Keats, a Shakespeare sonnet or a chapter of Animal Farm. I would tingle inside and want to sob, just at the words, at nothing more than the simple progression of sounds. But when it came to writing that thing called an essay, I flubbed and floundered. I could never discover where to start. How do you find the distance and the cool to write in an academically approved style about something that makes you spin, wobble and weep?
      I remember that child in the Dickens novel, Hard Times I think it is, the girl who had grown up with carnival people, spending her days with horses, tending them, feeding them, training them and loving them. There’s a scene where Gradgrind (it is Hard Times, I’ve just looked it up) is showing off his school to a visitor and asks this girl to define “horse” and of course the poor scrap dries up completely, just stutters and fumbles and stares hopelessly in front of her like a moron.
      “Girl number twenty unable to define a horse!” Gradgrind says and turns with a great sneer to the smart little weasel, Bitzer, a cocksure street kid who’s probably never dared so much as pat a horse in his life, gets a kick out of throwing stones at them I expect. This little runt stands up with a smirk and comes out pat with “Quadruped. Graminivorous. Forty teeth . . .” and so on, to wild applause and admiration.
      “Now girl number twenty you know what a horse is,” says Gradgrind.
      Well, each time I was asked to write an essay at school, with a title like “Wordsworth’s Prelude is the Egotism without the Sublime: Discuss,” I felt, when I got back my paper marked E or F or whatever, as if I were the stuttering horse lover and the rest of the class, with their As and Bs, were the smart-arsed parroting runts who had lost their souls. You could only write successfully about books and poems and plays if you didn’t care, really care, about them. Hysterical schoolboy wank, for sure, an attitude compounded of nothing but egotism, vanity and cowardice. But how deeply felt. I went through all my school days convinced of this, that “literary studies” were no more than a series of autopsies performed by heartless technicians. Worse than autopsies: biopsies. Vivisection. Even movies, which I love more than anything, more than life itself, they even do it with movies these days. You can’t talk about movies now without a methodology. Once they start offering courses, you know the field is dead. History, I found, was safer ground for me: I didn’t love Rasputin or Talleyrand or Charles the Fifth or Kaiser Bill. Who could? A historian has the pleasant luxury of being able to point out, from the safety of his desk, where Napoleon ballsed up, how this revolution might have been avoided, that dictator toppled or those battles won. I found I could be most marvelously dispassionate with history, where everyone, by definition, is truly dead. Up to a point. Which brings us round to the telling of this tale.
      As a historian I should be able to offer a good plain account of the events that took place on the . . . well, when did they take place? It is all highly debatable. When you become more familiar with the story you will understand the huge problems that confront me. A historian, someone said—Burke, I think, if not Burke then Carlyle—is a prophet looking backward. I cannot approach my story in that fashion. The puzzle that besets me is best expressed by the following statements.

      a: None of what follows ever happened
      b: All of what follows is entirely true

      Get your head round that one. It means that it is my job to tell you the true story of what never happened. Perhaps that’s a definition of fiction.
      I admit that this preamble must look rather tricksy: I get as snortingly impatient as the next man when authors draw attention to their writerly techniques, and this sentence itself disappears even more deeply than most into the filthy elastic of its own narrative rectum, but there’s nothing I can do about that.
      I saw a play the other week (plays are nothing to films, nothing. Theater is dead but sometimes I like to go and watch the corpse decompose) in which one of the characters said something like this, she said that the truth about things was like a bowl of fishhooks: you try to examine one little truth and the whole lot comes out in a black and vicious bunch. I can’t allow that to happen here. I have to do some unfastening and untangling, so that if the hooks do all come out in one go, they might at least emerge neatly linked, like a chain of paper clips.
      I feel then that I can confidently enough begin with this little series of connections: if it weren’t for a rotted clasp, an alphabetical adjacency and the predictably vile, thirst-making hangovers to which Alois was subject, then I would have nothing to tell you. So we may as well start at the point I have already claimed (and disclaimed) to be the beginning.
      There I lie, wondering like Keats, Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music, do I wake or sleep? Wondering too, why the Christ Jane isn’t coiled warmly beside me.
      The clock tells me why.
      It’s a quarter to nine.
      She’s never done this to me before. Never.
      I rush to the bathroom and rush out again, toothpaste dribbling down the corners of my mouth.
      “Jane!” I bubble. “Jane, what the pants is going on? It’s half-past nine!”
      In the kitchen I snap on the kettle and frenzy around for coffee, sucking my peppermint fluoride lips in panic. An empty bag of Kenco and boxes and boxes and boxes of teas.
      Raspberry Rendezvous for God’s sake. Rendezvous? Orange Dazzler. Banana and Liquorice Dream. Nighttime Delight.
      Jesus, what is it with her? Every tea but tea tea. And not a bean or bag of coffee to be had.
      At the back of the cupboard . . . triumph, glory. Mwah! A big Aquafresh kiss for you, my darling.
      “Safeway Colombian Coffee, Fine Ground for Filters.”
      All right!
      Back to the bedroom, hopping into cutoff denim. No time for boxers, no time for socks. Bare feet jammed into boat shoes, laces later.
      Into the kitchen again just as the kettle thumps itself off, bit of a hiss from so little water, but enough for a cup, easily enough for a cup.
      Oh damn it, no!
      No, no, no, no, no!
      Bitch. Sow. Cow. Angel. Double-bitch. Sweetness. Slag.
      “Safeway Colombian Coffee, Fine Ground for Filters: Naturally Decaffeinated.
      Calm, Michael. Calm. Bleib ruhig, mein Sohn.
      I can keep it together. I’m a graduate. A soon-to-be-doctored graduate. I won’t be beaten by this. Not a little nonsense like this.
      Ha! Gotcha! Lightbulb-over-the-head, finger-snapping eureka, who’s a clever boy? Yes . . .
      Those pills, those pep pills. Pro-Doz? No-Doz? Something like that.
      Skidding into the bathroom, my brain half registers something. An important fact. Something amiss. Put it to one side. Time enough later.
      Where they go? Where they go?
      Here you are, you little buggers . . . yes, come to Mama . . .
      “No-Doz. Stay alert. Ideal for exam revision, late nights, driving, etc. Each pill contains 50 mg caffeine.”
      At the kitchen sideboard, like a London cokehead giggling in a nightclub toilet, I crush and grind and chop.
      The chunks of white pop and wink in the coffee mud as I pour the boiling water on.
      “Safeway Colombian Coffee, Fine Ground for Filters: Unnaturally Recaffeinated.”
      Now that’s coffee. A tad bitter perhaps, but real coffee, not Strawberry Soother or Nettle ’n’ Chamomile tisane. And you say I have no gumption, Jane hun? Ha! Wait till I tell you about this tonight. I outdid Paul Newman in Harper. All he did was recycle an old filter paper, yeah?
      A quarter to ten. Teaching at eleven. No panic. I stalk comfortably now, mug in hand into the spare room, quite in charge. Bloody showed her.
      The Apple is cold. A nannying humming nag no more. Who knows when I may condescend to turn you on again, Maccie Thatcher? And there, on the desk, neatly squared, magnificently, obscenely thick, Das Meisterwerk itself.
      I keep my distance, just craning forward; we cannot allow even the tiniest drop of recaf to stain the glorious title page.



      Way-hey! Four years. Four years and two hundred thousand words. There’s that bastard keyboard, so plastically dumb, so comically vacuous.


      Nothing else to choose from. Just those ten numbers and twenty-six letters permuted into two hundred thousand words, a comma here and a semicolon there. Yet for a sixth of my life, a whole sixth of my life, by big beautiful Buddha, that keyboard clawed at me like cancer.
      Fiff-ha-hoo! Bit of a stretch and there’s the morning workout.
      I sigh with pleasure and drift back to the kitchen. The 150 mg of caffeine has hit the ground running and breasted the blood-brain barrier with arms upraised. I am now awake. Pumpingly A-wake.
      Yes, I am now awake. Awake to everything.
      Awake to What Was Wrong in the bathroom.
      Awake to a piece of paper leaning up between the heel of last night’s cheese and the empty wine bottle in the center of the kitchen table.
      Awake to the reason that at eight on the tit I was not, as I should have been, awake.
      Let’s face it, Pup. It’s not working. I’ll call back for the rest
      of my things later today. We’ll sort out how much I owe you
      for the car. Congratulations on your thesis. Think about it
      for a while and you’ll know I’m right. J.

      Even as I feel myself go through the necessary shock, rage and howls, a part of me registers relief, does instantly register relief, or if not relief an awareness certainly that this elegant little note accesses a smaller and less significant proportion of my emotions than have done the earlier absence of coffee or the possibility that I might have been allowed to oversleep or most especially now, the casual, the arrogant assumption that my car shall go to her.
      The explosion of fury, then, is mostly for form’s sake, a kind of compliment to Jane in fact. The hurling of the wine bottle—the wine bottle, the celebratory wine bottle, the wine bottle I had so carefully chosen at Oddbins the night before, the Chateauneuf du Pape that I had worked toward for a sixth part of my whole life—is a gesture therefore, a necessary theatrical acknowledgment that the ending of our three years together has earned at least some noise and some spectacle.
      When she returns for her “things” she will spy the elegant curved streak of rusty sediment along the kitchen wall and her big feet will crunch on the glass and she will derive some satisfaction from believing that I “cared” and that will be that. Jane&Michael have ceased to be and now there is Jane and there is Michael and Michael is, at last, Somebody. Somebody, as Lennon would have it, in his own Write.
      In the study, picking up the Meisterwerk, weighing it in my hands, ready to push it delicately into my briefcase, I suddenly goggle, with Roger Rabbit starting eyes to the accompaniment of a loud klaxon, at a small speck on the title page: it has erupted from nowhere like an old surfie’s melanoma, just in the short time I was in the kitchen hurling wine bottles. It’s not a spot of coffee, I am sure of that, perhaps just a flaw in the paper that only the strong May sunlight can expose. No time to boot up the computer and reprint, so I snatch a bottle of Liquid Paper, touch the tip of the brush to this naughty little freckle and blow gently.
      Holding the paper by the edges I go outside and hold it against the sun. It is enough. ’Twill serve.
      There by the telegraph pole is the space where the Renault should be.
      “You bitch!”
      Oh dear. Bad move.
      Little delivery girl veers and races away, thrust over the handlebars remembering every terrible story she ever glimpsed on the front of the newspapers she daily dumps onto the doormats. Telling mummy on you.
      Oh dear. Better give her time or she’ll think I’m following and that won’t do. I don’t know why we have to have a newspaper delivery in the first place. Jane is a newspaper junkie, that’s the fact of the matter. We even get the Cambridge Evening News delivered. Every afternoon. I mean, please.
      I turn and wheel out the bicycle from the passageway. The ticking of the wheels pleases me. Hell, I am young. I am free. My teeth are clean. In my noble old school briefcase there nestles a future. Nestles the future. The sun shines. To hell with everything else. --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Broché .

Revue de presse

"Stephen Fry at his twinkling best" (Sunday Times)

"His best novel yet ... an extravagant, deeply questioning work of science fiction" (GQ)

"A sci-fi comedy that is also a time-travel thriller, constantly topical and always surprising... packed with the author's personal enthusiasm and hatreds, the former red-hot and the latter icy-black" (Literary Review)

"A powerful imaginative pull that keeps the pages turning while the tea goes cold and the cat gets the goldfish" (The Independent)

"A sprightly and entertaining read" (Daily Telegraph)

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Format: Broché Achat vérifié
Book pretty worn out but for such a small price I can t complain too much!
Delivered on time. Great reading!
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Commentaires client les plus utiles sur (beta) HASH(0x8fbfae34) étoiles sur 5 94 commentaires
10 internautes sur 10 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
HASH(0x90462dbc) étoiles sur 5 A Good Read 3 juin 2002
Par Amerigo Vespucci - Publié sur
Format: Broché
This novel is well-written in the finest tradition of British humor. The classic premise that when we change things we sometimes make them worse is the basis for the novel, and it is served very well, with vivid descriptions and color. I highly recommend this book, but I think that it takes a certain type of off-color personality to really appreciate it.
19 internautes sur 22 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
HASH(0x90462e10) étoiles sur 5 Very nearly a winner, but lacks speed in the finish 4 mai 1998
Par digerati - Publié sur
Format: Relié
Having read all of Stephen Fry's earlier works, it came as no surpise to experience Fry's usual laser-guided wit and aplomb. While the book certainly earns its place in the top 5% of popular novels for 97/98 [Why oh why did it take so long to release this book in the USA? I had to get my mates in Britain to send me a copy], it lacks some of the style, pace and out-and-out cleverness of his earlier novels.
In short, I enjoyed "The Liar" and "The Hippopotamus" more, and I would encourage anyone who hasn't read Stephen Fry to buy this one first and then work backwards.
The main problem with the book is that Fry seems to lose his way once the main character wakes up in his alternate reality. The pace drags and it seems that the main character mirrors Fry's own fumblings to find a way out of the situation. The solution, when it comes, is rather too trite and the ending sugar coated.
That said, Stephen Fry remains one of the most talented authors around: fighteningly intelligent, excoriatingly funny and endowed with an unfashionable generosity (in literary circles, it seems) that ensures his readers have a good time.
13 internautes sur 15 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
HASH(0x8f8f02c4) étoiles sur 5 Interesting speculation but nothing new 11 décembre 1997
Par - Publié sur
Format: Relié
British author Stephen Fry is most well known as actor who has appeared in "Blackadder", "Jeeves & Wooster" and "Peter's Friends." Making History, however, is his third novel, so he can be considered something of a novelist as well. This particular novel is an alternate history, although Fry classifies it as an alternate reality.
Michael D. "Puppy" Young is a graduate student reading history at Cambridge. His recently finished thesis is on the childhood of Adolf Hitler, a person who has always fascinated Young, not because of who he was, but because of the simple coincidence that they were both born on April 20. A chance meeting with Leo Zuckerman, a refugee whose father was at Auschwitz, provides the impetus of the adventure. Zuckerman has a feeling about Young and shows him a device that Zuckerman has invented which can transmit shadowy images from the past. Zuckerman has it tuned to the day his father arrived at Auschwitz. The two men work to build a transmitter so they can send a permanent male contraceptive pill which Young's girlfriend has developed, to poison the water supply in Brunau, in time to stop Adolf Hitler from being born.
The first half of the novel, which sets the scene, varies between being tedious and interesting. Several of the chapters show Hitler's parents or Hitler in World War I and introduce us to a person who will figure prominently in the second part of the novel, Rudolf Gloder. Strangely enough, the interesting parts cannot be said to belong only to the present-day sequences or the historical sequences. They vary without regard to the characters. One of the techniques which Fry uses repeatedly, however, writing three of the chapters as movie scripts, is probably where the novel bogged down the most, especially the final segment where Fry began introducing a lot of background and action which was not germane to the plot, or even a strong sub-plot.
The second half of the novel is when Fry really hits his stride. Apparently successful in ridding the world of Adolf Hitler, Young has found himself as an American student at Princeton. Much of this part of the book is spent with Young trying to figure out who he is and later, what the history of this new twentieth century is. As with the first section of the book, Fry returns to World War I and we get to witness Rudi Gloder's rise in the absence of Adolf Hitler.
Very little that Fry does is unique or surprising to anyone who has read a fair amount of alternate history. This novel, however, is being marketed in the mainstream, however, and will hold a certain amount of appeal to the readership which found Harris's Fatherland an intriguing read. Fry does handle his material well, and even if he doesn't deliver many full-fledged surprised, the moment when the reader realizes where Fry is going with the pieces of the novel is worth the price of admission.
6 internautes sur 6 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
HASH(0x8fd6fa80) étoiles sur 5 Water, water, everywhere! 3 mai 2001
Par - Publié sur
Format: Broché
Stephen Fry has produced a novel that not only causes laught but also intrigues the mind. Ever thought 'what if the German's had won?'well, Fry considers this situation. We the readers are merely dragged along with a plot that is audacious to say the least. Hitler is, in fact, not the dictator of the world at all. Instead there is some kind of 'imposter'. The world is actually a better place to be in with Hitler as part of its history. The story sees our leading character dashing in time to remove a pill from the water supply that distorts what we now know as histroy. Inventive to an unpresidented extreme.
If there is one flaw, it has to be the slightly weak conclusion. One feels that there could have been something with a little more impact than what we do get. However, this should not deter you from reading this exellent book. Any weaknesses this novel has are easily outweighed by its merits.
25 internautes sur 32 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
HASH(0x90462a98) étoiles sur 5 Making a Pig's Ear 25 décembre 2002
Par J C E Hitchcock - Publié sur
Format: Broché
As an enthusiastic reader of alternative history fiction, I have found that certain themes seem to appeal to writers more than others. Among the more popular ones are "What if there had been no Reformation?", "What if the South had won the American Civil War?" and,of course, "What if Hitler had never been born?" and "What if the Nazis had won World War Two?"
Stephen Fry exercises considerable ingenuity in combining these last two questions with the science-fiction theme "Could we travel back in time and alter the past?" The central premise of his novel is that two Cambridge academics, Michael Young, a young historian, and Leo Zuckerman, an elderly German-born physicist, decide to prevent the birth of Adolf Hitler by using a time-machine to introduce contraceptives into the water-supply of his home town of Braunau shortly before his conception.
Unfortunately, this experiment goes awry. Then second half of the novel is set in a world where the Nazis still came to power in the early 1930s led by one Rudolf Gloder, a man as ruthless as Hitler but more subtle and cunning. Under Gloder's leadership, Germany develops the atomic bomb and uses it to dominate Europe. America remains independent and nominally democratic, but develops into a deeply reactionary society, racist, anti-homosexual and with an intrusive secret police.
This is a clever idea, and Stephen Fry writes with a good deal of wit and style. There are a couple more, very dark, twists of the plot, which I will not reveal. Nevertheless, the book suffers from structural weaknesses. The main one is the decision to set the second part of the book in America rather than Nazi-ruled Europe. (In the alternative universe he has conjured up, Michael is a student at Princeton rather than Cambridge). This means that we never see the effects of the tyranny of Gloder and his successors for ourselves, but merely hear about it at second hand. Nor is it explained why an America engaged in a cold war with Nazi Germany should have become so much more reactionary and backward-looking than an America engaged in a cold war with Soviet Russia. The concentration on the failings of American society in the alternative universe makes the book seem rather unbalanced; indeed, when Michael and his Princeton friend Stephen Burns come up with a scheme to undo the damage by ensuring that Hitler is born after all, one is left with the impression that they are motivated less by the desire to liberate Europe from Nazi rule than by the wish to make America safe for long hair, gay pride marches and Ecstasy.
The second structural weakness is that, although most of the book is written in the form of a first-person prose narrative, lengthy (and key) sections are written in the form of a film screenplay. The two styles of writing do not mesh together well, because the screenplay mode of writing does not serve to convey characters' feelings and motivations as well as does prose narrative. In a film, of course, the bare bones of the screenplay are fleshed out by the contributions of the actors and director, who have other techniques of conveying emotion, but when the screenplay stands by itself it makes for very flat reading. This adversely affects the book in one very important way. During the first half of the book, Michael is heterosexual with a girlfriend. During the second half, he becomes a homosexual and he and Stephen fall in love. Unfortunately, the scene where they realise their love for each other is one of those written in the screenplay form, so the reader is left with no idea what has prompted this sudden reversal of the sexual orientation of the central character, and Michael's sudden conversion to homosexuality seems completely implausible.
Another point that interested me was the tension between Stephen Fry's obvious political liberalism and the deeper conservative theme of his book. The Law of Unintended Consequences - the law that says that in seeking to make a thing better we often make it worse and that the more radical the change we seek, the more likely it is that it will lead to disaster - is, after all, a basic element of conservative political thought, but one that is generally rejected by liberals and radicals as too pessimistic. I wonder if Mr Fry was aware of this contrast- something I would have like to have seen explored more deeply
As another reader has pointed out, Hitler's home town is named Braunau, not Brunau, the spelling that appears in the book throughout. Mr Fry, however, seems to have researched the historical background thoroughly, so I presume that this error is the fault of an editor or proof-reader rather of his own.
The idea behind this book is an interesting one; I would, however, like to have seen it better handled. Hence the title of this review- my grandfather's favourite expression for something done clumsily that could have been done better.
To declare an interest, Stephen Fry and I were at Cambridge together, and I knew him slightly. I doubt if he remembers me (if he is reading this, he is probably thinking "James who?"), but I certainly remember him. I hope this has not coloured my review.
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