Reporters of Self-conscious Phonetic Experiments,

Identification with a book for the purpose of a review can be perceived as shallow or fake however, that’s what could happen unless reviewing no books or several books simultaneously. I chose to read Mother Night by Kurt Vonnegut.

The book is about an American playwright, author and poet, Howard J. Campbell, who was living in Germany during World War II. Hired by the Nazis to broadcast propaganda over the radio, he was then contracted by the Americans as a spy. His messages to the allies were broadcast in codes that took the form of more propaganda. Only a few people ever knew of the work undertaken for the forces of good, whilst nations of millions still harboured hatred for our protagonist.

There are several themes that could be derived from the book but the one that strikes me is the enforced indifference, and subsequent isolation, our protagonist is left with. Campbell has to develop immunity to and enthusiasm for the obscenities broadcasts against the Jews and the West. His attitude to the codes he sends to the Americans is never quite revealed, he perhaps perceives this role as a mundanity, for no obvious pride is felt by Campbell. The ambiguity in his feelings never endears him to one side or the other.

He carries out his chores without passion, as I did towards the end of the working year, I was so run down, I simply went through the motions of working without engaging in it or enjoying the fruits of my labour. When the war was over, Campbell was left listless, his wife had been killed, he was left without a home, he had money, he had lost his will to write and he had no inclination of what his desire should be. He drifted for many years, he did not spend extravagantly, he retreated to a dreary New York flat and he clung desperately to what meagre possessions he had or what came his way, no matter what these possessions were; false friendships or questionable appearances (uniforms, clothing) - for they were something, and in a way, they were small symbols of hope that he could finally care about things, make choices or have wishes.

One of the best songs of the year, I Don’t Know Where to Begin by The Pictish Trail contains the lyric, “My saddest moments are when I feel nothing at all”, and these words somehow parallel the feelings of Howard J. Campbell for me. Was it this novel where the title for a Fanfarlo song came from: You Are One of the Few Outsiders Who Really Understands us? I revelled in the fact that a band I love had bothered to read a book by an author I love - that completes a wonderful cultural threesome.

I have been plagued by indifference this December and I know that I have to write well in the coming months but I won’t meet the same fate as Howard J. Campbell, yet, worryingly, those unidentifiably close, have tried.