4 was curious about the work 3 was consuming; was this true, vibrant literary matter he was reading, or was that just another rouse. Either way, that was not the matter at hand; after 3’s endless claims to know the manner in which novels must be written, it was inevitable that he must be questioned on his own knowledge of sound plotting.
‘What’s the climax of Novel C?’
‘Let’s not do this.’
‘No, tell me. What happens? What really happens?’
‘Plath dies.’
‘Plath dies?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what’s the rest of the book? You said there was a series of conversations between them to end the book.’
‘Well, Plath wasn’t there.’
‘Plath wasn’t there?’ 4 was by this point quite hysterical. 3 was finding it difficult to believe she wasn’t Jennifer Aniston.
‘Listen, it’s not what you think,’ 3 protested.
‘Oh, really? Then how does Ted Hughes talk to his dead wife? Through a medium? Does he ask her how her day’s been on a ouija board? “How’s death? said Ted Hughes. Oh, it’s been fine, said Sylvia Plath. Are you still bitter about me killing you and all that? he asked. Oh, no, it was just a bit of banter, really.”’
4 rose in a flurry of misguided anger; he knocked the teacup halfway off the table, causing it to balance on the edge of the coaster; twenty-seven days of negligence later, the teacup would be the centre of a drama, when it spills during the middle of
‘Christ, I was just joking. He talks to her ghost? That sounds like a pretty terrible novel.’
‘It is good, though.’
'I couldn't have shared a house with you if I'd known you read books where the protagonist dies halfway through.'
3 looked at three with the sense of bewildered disgust she normally held when discussing his reading habits. ‘You’re really reading a book where she dies?’
‘I can’t imagine any other sort of book about Sylvia Plath. ‘All her writing was about dying. As she said herself, dying is an art like anything else.’
3 was never certain about trying new books, though she knew it was necessary for her own mental and spiritual progression. 3 was strong in the belief that life was a course of endless development. Many unfortunately were detrimental. In the effort to develop her life with new books, 3 found an awful number of books which did her bad.
Books which were scarring had a purpose still; to be haunted by the message of a novel meant to be significantly moved by its meaning, that the novel held a place perpetually in one’s mind; or one’s brain; or one’s brain-mind; or mind-brain; or soul, should one choose to believe that; yet, despite the evidence; meaning here the lack of evidence either for or against a soul; and a soul here meaning the afterlife; despite all the lack of evidence, belief in a soul was declining; both among the religious and the heathen; not that anyone still said ‘heathen’; besides David Bowie, of course; in both of those groups, belief in the perpetual soul was dying out.
4 had spent some time looking into the works of that noted doomed couple, Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath. Given that one was an adulterer and the other a depressed lover, the relationship was powerfully tragic. The tale of Hughes and Plath held as beautiful and heart-wrenching an air to it as any fictional tale. If ever there were a story worthy of having a book written about, it was the true story of Ms Plath.
4 had read a couple of Plath’s poems, and had then given The Bell Jar a go; it soon became too painful, traipsing through the pages; reading a life left behind; feeling the gut-wrenching pain of a woman about to die. 4 had never made an attempt at the works of Ted Hughes; seeing her outsider's view of Hughes as a man responsible for the death of one of the great artists of the 20th century, she had no desire to grant him any attention; even after her friend had mentioned how Birthday Letters brought Hughes a new perspective, 4 was resolute in her belief that Ted was unforgivable.
Nothing could ever forgive what Ted did.
3 had mentioned at one point his passion for a book on the matter. The perfect story, to 4’s mind; it was the heartwrenching tale of Ted’s betrayal of Sylvia; Sylvia, the beautiful and delicate mind, owed her death to that traitor of a husband; to craft that story into a work of fiction would surely take a genius and a pure artist. 4 had promised her housemate 3 that, if she ever had the opportunity, she would read that novel about Ted and Sylvia.
When, while out for a walk, 4 encountered a book shop, she could not help but enter. And there it was. She had not been looking for it. But she had encountered it nonetheless.
It was Novel C. The book which 3 had raved about. 3, who claimed himself to be an arbiter of all great writing, had proclaimed Novel C to be a masterpiece. If his opinion were to be put to the test, or if his word really was the final word on quality, 3 would have to read Novel C for herself.
When 4 finally finished reading Novel C, she threw it to the floor. She couldn’t stand the fact that someone had attempted to make suicide to eroticism in glamourising the death of Sylvia Plath.
Such a wasted life, yet here it made trivial literature. Even the term literature itself was wholly displaced. This was not merely poverty porn but a suicide flick. Cheap thrills gained from reading of somebody’s fate; and this was a real human being, who lived a real human life with a real family and had serious thoughts of suicide, and seriously and really committed suicide fatefully one day.
4 was sick to death of this tragedy being exposed as fiction in a novel.
Several hours later, she returned to her room and saw the book crumpled on the floor where it had landed; there was a crinkle in the spine and a fold in the paperback cover. 4 owned many second-hand books; many of them were in a poor state of affairs; she wondered how many had aged in that way from being dropped accidentally, and how many had been thrown across a room in a rage.
‘I hate the book!’ 4 shouted at 3 the next day. ‘I hate it, I hate it. It’s depression made erotic.’
Of all the shocking and contrarian statements 3 had made in the time the bibliophiles had lived together, this next was the most shocking: ‘I don’t care.’
‘What?’ 4 was more than accustomed to having 3 disregard her views. When his beliefs were shaken, he always feigned indifference. But this time he did seem not to care. He had a genuine air of passivity. 4 was more sympathetic. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes. I’ve had a change of heart.’
‘What?’
‘It’s not that I’ve changed my mind about books. I still have the same taste in books. But I’m at a sort of conclusion.’ 3 smiled at her. ‘Books are always a conflict, yes, but our choice in books doesn’t have to be a conflict.’
4 didn’t understand what 3 meant, until he held up a new book. A final work had arrived. A new choice in literature, newly delivered. Novel D. 4 couldn’t think of the words to say. After some time slowly approaching and stroking the cover of the next work, she asked, ‘Is it good?’
3 grinned. The first time he’d appeared happy in a long while. ‘I read it all this morning. It’s excellent.’
‘I’ll have to give it a read,’ 4 said; and she did so.
‘How did you find it?’ asked 3.
‘It’s perfect.’
‘My thoughts exactly.’
‘It’s so wonderful. Beautiful yet thoughtful. Emotive and entertaining. Enjoyable while meaningful. All these concepts, perfectly conceptualised.’
‘I never thought we’d agree on anything, let alone a book,’ said 3.
4 agreed, and added, ‘I never thought we’d have Novel D.