Christian Yorke

The following short piece was submitted to The Twisted Web by Tony Jones, the talented British novelist and social commentator. The scene involves two lovers of nineteenth century Russian literature who spend a few idle moments debating the work of their heros. 

‘No, I wouldn’t say it’s love. More like a deep appreciation of the Russian masters. I got almost to the end of Crime and Punishment once, at only the second attempt.’

‘So you’re more of a Kafka man?’

‘Don’t be barbaric Derek, he’s not even Russian…’

‘Indeed.’

‘You’re right though in a way. Most decent critics agree that Kafka is much funnier than the Russians. Bit like with Shakespeare or Faulkner, his natural humour constantly  counterweighs and intensifies his overarching sense of lost hope.’

‘I concur. In fact, now you mention it I’d go so far as to assert that his humour also humanizes our own fated intimacy with what is grave by permitting life’s fullest, most actual context to be brought into view even as it points us to an approved method of acceptance.’

‘Not everyone would agree with that analysis old boy.’

‘Oh come off it Richard, The Trial had me chortling more than a few times. Imagine consulting a bed ridden attorney! No wonder Joseph K was knifed to death for no reason.’

‘Hmmmm, I see your point now. Although I don’t mind admitting that the penultimate chapter, In The Cathedral, gave me nightmares. And at the end as K dutifully awaits execution and reflects “Where was the Judge whom he had never seen? Where was the High Court to which he had never penetrated?” A provocative plea by which we sense that K’s suffering may yet extend infinitely.’

‘Yes, if nothing else Kafka had an extraordinary narrative and descriptive skill whilst still bringing to his task a visionary insight, a romantic verve and a grasp of human character that seemed uniquely his own.’

‘Now I must disagree. That sounds as though you are describing Nabokov…’

‘Hey, Dick, chuck us down an ‘ammer!’ demanded a new voice.

Richard peered over the scaffolding to his colleague three floors below. ‘I’m on me fuckin’ tea break you cunt!’

‘Fuck you then, I’m tellin’ the governor…’

Derek rubbed his hard hat and beckoned Richard to sit back down. ‘It’s like something out of Chekhov round here sometimes isn’t it. His later work that is.’

‘And look what happened to him!’

‘Tuberculosis?”

‘Yes, like the lot of them. Except Dostoyevsky. It was emphysema and epilepsy what saw him off.’ explained Richard as he launched a heavy mallet in the general direction of his colleagues who were now watching a rusted cement mixer spin round and round.

I thought that I would share with you a short passage that was cut from Modern Trials, since which time it has been locked in a hard drive. Before I binned it, this section was intended to provide some back story for a minor character called Knudd. He is a sixty something ex-military man with one kidney and the first pacemaker fitted in Norway. His purpose is to illustrate the pleasure, and danger, of diving and ultimately to contribute to a life changing event. I hope that you find it challenging. Here goes…

Isis roared, her decks shook and the sea boiled. Kemnebi’s muscles bulged his lean forearms as he opened her up from the flybridge. This proved too much for Knudd as a lack of focus tipped him over. He lay where he fell, oily puddles sloshing against his face, stinging his eyes. His gaping lips slurped the salty waste, and the vile taste returned him to childhood. 

In memory’s grip he once again felt autumn cold tearing through his thin vest. Misty breath plumed in shallow gasps. Dread had disallowed him time to jump into his boots and, as he fled, sopping undergrowth lacerated his feet. Knudd remembered the carbon sky beyond the gloomy canopy of trees, and the biting wind that iced his face, soothed only by hot tears. Strangely, in those early moments he had felt safe; a sense of peace punctuated only by cracking sticks, the swoosh of heavy grass and the thudding rhythm of footsteps behind. He glanced back more than once, almost falling, but was unable to penetrate the dark shadows. His tiny fists pumped harder, until he realised that soon he would have nothing left. 

Through trees ahead he noticed a swirl of grey light. Moments later, in the clearing, he fell to his knees crying quietly, each breath a trial. Exhaustion had robbed him of even one more step, whatever the consequences. 

His strongest memory of that afternoon was the arrival of his brothers, screaming his name. He remembered rough hands at his throat; the weight of a heavy canister punched into his back; a boot swung forcefully into his face. The  impact was so overwhelming that he slumped forward and lay motionless, cold dew mixing with blood’s iron tang.

His brothers had held him down and poured petrol in his hair and over his face. They took to their task with a shattering frenzy, spit flying as they threatened fire and violence. The thick fluid clung like a viscous mask. A lighter was produced and its flame flickered near Knudd’s eyes. Hopeless, Knudd breathed, swallowing the noxious petrol before vomiting. 

The brothers played together in this way until Knudd was told that the threat to torch him was just a big joke; a bit of high jinx that must remain their secret. Knudd really should have known better. He felt stupid, and angry and horrified in almost equal measure; and the sum of these feelings was gratitude, because although his brothers often teased him in this way, he felt at peace when they eventually ran laughing into the woods.

Back in the present, Knudd remained motionless until Ruben hauled him up.

Flight had observed Knudd’s attention seeking from a distance until he dropped into the pool of verrucas and broken toe nails that always seemed to congregate at the stern. His gaze was cold as he chose not to participate in the nervy chuckles and concerned groans. Flight regarded his recent acquisition as unruly and tasteless; all because Gabriel had needed something to pity (or bully) in the hotel lobby before they all shared a taxi on day one. 

from youtube

Evelyn Waugh is widely acknowledged as one of the greatest novelists of the twentieth century. Although he is known to millions for writing Brideshead Revisited, he devoted much of his early work to romping farce and brutally funny satire. A good example of this is Scoop; an exuberant comedy noir set in Fleet Street (back in the 1930s when it was London’s centre of journalism) and Ishmaelia. 

Before his death in 1966, Waugh gave a number of recorded interviews for the BBC; an institution that he considered then (as indeed now) to be staffed exclusively by self important functionaries. His 1953 appearance on Frankly Speaking caused him such offence that he remained traumatised by the experience for the rest of his life. Nevertheless, the interviews that he gave from 1948 to 1964 are essential listening (or viewing) for anyone requiring a glimpse into the world of a literary heavyweight.

The above animation is based on a small selection of these interviews. If you want more of the same let me know and it shall be arranged, although Mr Tennessee will be unavailable for future productions (as explained below).

Finally, I have been asked to point out that the actor playing Waugh is unexpectedly available for feature length rom-coms or TV crime drama. He can be contacted via The Twisted Web; please feel free to get in touch, his rates are very reasonable. In addition, the animation is in memory of, and dedicated to, Jersey J Tennessee who died in a horrible gardening accident late last week. May the Lord have mercy on his soul.

from youtube

Here at the Twisted Web we love a good read and we love a good movie. In the above animation we combine the two with interesting results.

By pressing PLAY you will meet Christian Yorke’s virtual self. He is dressed for a night out in his private alley where he can often be found reading extracts from his novel (Modern Trials) to tramps, thieves, politicians and military types; in fact anybody who will listen. And boy is he in the mood to read to you right now.

But be warned, the chosen extract is a gritty account of jealousy and violence. Two minor characters behave like hooligans, drink away their sorrows, lament lost love, listen to Bowie and participate in a tragic assault. Yes, it has all the ingredients of classic comedy noir. Go on, push the button and enjoy…

More extracts will follow.