I’ve recently finished reading Island by Aldous Huxley. I have to say from the outset that I’m a sucker for both Utopian and Dystopian novels. Two of my top 10 books are 1984 by George Orwell and Utopia by Thomas More. The corollary is that they can be extremely mediocre, as was Fugue For A Darkening Island by the unremarkable Christopher Priest. I must say I only bought it for its outstandingly kitsch front cover.
The reason behind the fascination with these two ideas is nothing intriguing. It’s innate to the human condition to not only imagine the perfect but also the ruinous. One almost seems impossible or at least lacks some definition without the existence of the other, which hints at one of the reasons I don’t believe in a Heaven – but that’s another story.
As the name suggests, the story is set on a tropical island where the people live fulfilling and peaceful lives, told through the eyes of a cynical journalist who is inextricably involved in the impending downfall of this little paradise.
The book treads a skilful line between novel and essay. At some points you feel like the reality of the dialog is compromised due to the author trying to massage an idea thoroughly but in most parts you are convinced that it is indeed how these people think and talk. Inevitably with Utopian and Dystopian novels the threshold of contextual description is larger than that of perhaps other types of novels. But if it’s done well, as in this case, description turns easily into experience.
His prose has an invigorating quality. The frankness of much of the characters dialog, most memorably of the children he first meets, gives a refreshing tone to the novel. The bon mots expose my lack of French and many other references are tragically lost due to my shallow knowledge of history. However, these were minor hiccups my enjoyment. The book will make you look at those in power with even more distrust and, if like me, reinforce that urge in the back of your head to get away while you can, live off the fat of the land and get soil under your fingernails.
Maybe I’ll start up a commune and call it ‘Alap’ in tribute…
