For years I approached people as though I was a detective trying to solve a case. I thought logic could be applied to them; I thought that no matter how confusing, how irrational and out of character, any of their behaviour seemed, explanations and answers would be forthcoming if you kept a professional distance and were intelligent and perceptive enough; and that, furthermore, you could, in fact, accurately predict behaviour with a small amount of information. I saw the chaos around me, which so troubled my peers, as being simply a ball of string to untangle. I prided myself on understanding people, even if I only rarely liked them. Then, eighteen months ago I made the decision to climb down from my comfortable vantage point, to engage fully with the world, and found, at closer quarters, that it is surreal and nightmarish, and that any attempt to make sense of it, to impose order upon it, is futile and likely to lead to madness.

I had read Friedrich Dürrenmatt’s The Pledge once before, around five years ago. At that time, I found it, like many other police procedural novels, fun, easy-going, immediately satisfying, yet ultimately inconsequential. Perhaps I read it too quickly, but more likely my judgement was a result of an overriding complacency. I was happy then. It was not until I picked it up again this week, as a different man, as someone who is not at ease with the world or himself, that I came to appreciate how complex and moving it is. It begins with a chance meeting between a writer of detective novels – who is narrating the action – and a police chief. Not long after they are introduced, the author is offered a ride, during which the chief criticises the detective genre. These novels are, he says, a ‘waste of time,’ not because the culprit is always brought to justice – this he considers to be ‘morally necessary’ – but because they proceed logically. You can’t, he advises the narrator, and me too, albeit too late in my case, ‘come to grips with reality by logic alone.’

As a way of illustrating his point he starts to tell a story about one of his officers, Matthäi, which then dominates the rest of the book. These postmodern, meta-fictional aspects of The Pledge are often praised, yet are, for me, one of its few, but not fatal, flaws. The framing narrative, the meeting between the author and the chief, including his criticisms, are too contrived, are gracelessly executed, and, worse still, unnecessary. It is clear that Dürrenmatt himself is speaking through the policeman when he objects to convenient, predictable plotting, and how at odds it is with reality, but these points could, and are, made far more powerfully in the rest of the novel. The reader does not need them to be spelt out quite so clinically. In fact, these elements have the potential to compromise the intensity of what follows, because one always has in mind that one is listening to a story being recounted; it comes close to taking one out of the action, it weakens, if not breaks, the spell.

The reason that these things do not too negatively impact one’s experience of the book is due, in large part, to the author’s ability to create and maintain a foreboding atmosphere. Even before the main storyline is introduced Dürrenmatt writes about the ‘inhuman silence’ of the Swiss canton, of unnaturally dark days, and of mountains that resemble an ‘immense grave.’ One is given the impression that this is a menacing, strange place. The houses are wretched; the sun, when it actually comes out, is malevolent. The writer of detective novels is spooked. He mentions his fear of ‘not waking again’, of feeling as though he is trapped inside an ‘endless, meaningless dream.’ Later, there is the repeated red symbolism, which of course reminds one of blood, but most eerie and unsettling is the role of the hedgehog giant, whose significance will become clear upon reading the book.

“You’re choosing madness as a method, and it takes courage to do that, no question; extreme positions impress people generally these days; but if this method does not lead to its goal, I’m afraid that in the end, all you’ll be left with is the madness.”

The first glimpse one has of Matthäi is as an ‘old man on a stone bench.’ He is ‘unshaven, unwashed’; his clothes are ‘smeared and stained; his eyes are ‘staring, stupefied’; and there is a strong smell of absinthe. His current unfortunate state means that one is eager to find out how a former police officer came to be this way, especially when it is told that he was once a ‘most capable man’, even a ‘genius.’ The crime at the centre of the book is the murder of a child, a girl, perhaps the most emotive kind of crime, and, in the early stages of the investigation, the impression that one gets of Matthäi is of someone who is strong and dispassionate. For example, he is the only one present when the body is found who is able to look directly at the corpse; and the only one willing to shoulder the burden of informing the parents [during which he makes the pledge of the title]. Indeed, in one of my favourite lines, he says to a doctor that he didn’t want to suffer with the world, he wanted to be superior to it.

However, none of this lends any weight to the chief’s description of Matthäi as a genius. The earliest indication of his special ability is when he offers to release the primary suspect to a crowd who have gathered in order to seek vengeance. He says he will turn the man over to them if they can guarantee justice, then proceeds to convince them that this would be impossible, because they cannot prove his guilt. It is a daring move, and evidence not only of his talent, but his arrogance too. Matthäi believes that he can read people, and that reason, his reason, will triumph over disorder. One sees further evidence of this in his unwillingness to accept that the primary suspect is actually guilty, despite him having motive, opportunity, a previous conviction, and the girl’s blood on his clothing. On one level it seems like a kind of a superiority complex, such as when I was at University and would argue the most extreme positions, because I felt as though I could do so better, more logically and consistently, than anyone else could argue their more mainstream opinions.

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As a study of arrogance, The Pledge would be fine, but not quite the masterpiece that it is. What elevates it even further is that one can also interpret Matthäi’s stance as a great, obsessive, and ultimately insane, dedication to his work and, more importantly, to the truth [as he sees it]. The easiest thing would be, of course, to be satisfied with the most probable culprit and close the case. Certainly, the chief, the townsfolk, and his colleagues, are happy to do so. For Matthäi personally, who has landed a excellent job opportunity in Jordan, and is due to leave the country imminently, it is the best, the most sensible thing to do. However, he refuses to, or he can’t, and his behaviour becomes increasingly irrational, his methods and theories more monstrous, as he vows to catch the real perpetrator of the crime. As he pieces together his case, everything that he argues is plausible, but the point made by Dürrenmatt is that logic is so powerful that one can create, and justify, appalling narratives, that in a world of chaos one can find links between an infinite number of unrelated, insignificant things, and thereby imbue them with false significance. It is to his immense credit as an author that he has one rooting for his madman, has one believing in him, even when he ruthlessly uses a small child as bait in order to catch a killer who may not even exist.


Of all [fictional] detectives my favourite is Columbo. He’s not wise-cracking, hard drinking, not dark and brooding, not a moral crusader, not over-burdened with red-tape and administrative duties, he doesn’t even get his balls busted by a maniacal superior. He’s from the school of detectives that are simply better, more intelligent, than the criminals they bring to justice. His cases are not mysteries, we know who commits the crime almost immediately, and Columbo himself knows not long after we do. Indeed, if you happened to miss the first half of an episode you’d still know who committed the crime because it would be the person that Columbo is toying with, like a cat with a spider. His modus operandi is essentially one of harassment; every time the criminal thinks that he or she has shaken him they turn around and there he is, asking an apparently innocuous question [it’s never innocuous!] or being friendly [he’s never just being friendly!], all squinty-eyed and rain-macced. He is what we like to call where I come from a snidey cunt.

That Awful Mess is mad-almost-genius Carlo Emilio Gadda’s only crime novel [one could argue, in fact, that it is his only novel]. It features a mop-haired detective called Ingravallo or Don Ciccio [Gadda has a Russian author’s love for giving his characters multiple names]. However, aside from the hair, Ingravalllo is nothing like Columbo [boo to that!], or, for the most part, like any other fictional detective that I am aware of. On the surface he shares some characteristics, some qualities, with other well-known sleuths and gumshoes; he’s surly, for one thing, and he is [apparently; there is little evidence of it in the book] unusually good at his job. What sets him apart from most other fictional detectives is his philosophy, which is that while crimes may be solvable to a certain extent, i.e. that you may catch the man who, say, fired the gun, they have no primary cause, that all crime, indeed all action, is the consequence of an infinite number of causes. In this way, crimes are actually largely unsolvable, because solving a crime means that you understand how [and why] it happened.

I have an obsession with interconnectedness, which, as I understand it, is the idea that everything, every action, every incident, every second of your life, and everyone else’s, is connected [literally, not spiritually], is part of a complex, and almost infinite, series of actions and incidents dating back to the beginning of time. Take a banal example, such as the tattoo I had done a few weeks ago: there was involved in me getting this tattoo a desire and this desire will have arisen in my consciousness as a consequence of a mind-boggling number of factors, or, if you prefer, had been caused by every preceding second of my life, because until something occurs to you an infinite number of other things could occur to you. They don’t though, that specific thing does, and this is as a result of every other thing that you have thought and done up to that point. There is also a historical and a cultural connectedness, involving the invention of tattooing and the circumstances behind its popularity; the invention and the popularity, these, in themselves, will have been caused, bought into being, by a potentially endless series of other causes or factors. Furthermore [no, I haven’t finished yet] I am also connected to every other person who has ever thought of getting a tattoo, more closely to those who want that specific tattoo or a similar one, as well as being connected to the image itself [a man shaving]; and there are [yeah, I’m still going!] certain other connections, such as my connection to the tattooist and everything that has happened in his or her life, and to the ink and so on and so on and so on. In essence, then, you could spend your whole life trying to explain, to work out, my relationship to my most recent tattoo.

This ought to go some way to explaining why I was so intrigued by Gadda’s novel. He sees a crime as a kind of cyclone, into which a vast number of things are drawn. A crime isn’t characterized, for Gadda, merely by its relationship to a perpetrator; for him it is near impossible to get a full picture of the crime, to identify all the people involved, all the causes. In this way, his idea, his interest, is pretty much the same as mine, in that I would say that to get a full picture of a crime you would need to consider the entire history of the world. Gadda doesn’t quite go this far, but that is because he does not see his theory through to its logical conclusion. That Gadda doesn’t seem to follow through is perhaps a consequence of the novel being unfinished. It feels complete, but I have certainly read somewhere that it was not concluded satisfactorily as far as the author was concerned and that he was still working on it.

What we have, in terms of plot, are two crimes that take place a couple of days apart within the same building: a robbery and a murder. The mess of the title refers to the crimes themselves, especially the gruesome murder, but more specifically to the investigation, which, as outlined above, was doomed to failure, to being incomplete and frustrating. By the end of the novel the detective is really no closer to closure than he was at the beginning; all he has succeeded in doing is getting entangled in the mess of events and causes. If you like Christie, Chandler, or any of those formulaic beginning-middle-[possible twist]-end narratives then That Awful Mess isn’t for you. But then this isn’t really a police procedural novel, rather a philosophical novel of ideas masquerading as one.

Further joys are to be found in Gadda’s sense of humour, prose, and psychological complexity. Don Ciccio is a magnificently foul-tempered man and, until he disappears somewhat in the second half the book, he furnishes you with a number of quotable lines, or thoughts [there are aspects of stream-of-consciousness] such as the response to his friend’s dog which he deems the kind you want to stamp on. I also thoroughly enjoyed the little hints and suggestions of a lurid, salacious, aspect to the murdered woman’s life prior to death. Liliana, the victim, is perhaps the most interesting and complex character in the book, which is surprising as she dies fairly early on. Her psychology is revealed, however, via the investigation and Don Ciccio’s odd obsession with her.

While I consider the prose a highlight I must point out that it is an acquired taste. Tim Parks, the so-called Italian literature connoisseur, called it incomprehensible or bordering on nonsense [if I recall correctly; he certainly said something of that sort]. If I was being pissy [which I almost always am] I would retort that Parks ought to improve his levels of concentration because That Awful Mess is not incomprehensible. In fact, in comparison, it is far easier to understand, to read and follow, than Gadda’s other novel [which Parks prefers] Acquainted With Grief. That book, I’m pretty sure, only makes complete sense to people speaking in tongues and dolphins. His prose style is baroque, is dense and difficult, though, and so That Awful Mess is perhaps not for those who don’t want to work a bit [no criticism intended – each to their own, and all that].