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Hang Him When He Is Not There
New Year’s Eve, 1989. At a residential care home in suburban Australia, fireworks explode in the distance while an elderly man dies in troubling circumstances. Decades later, a proof-reader, disfigured by a childhood accident, prepares to meet a celebrated and reclusive novelist. Between these two figures a subtle and intricate web is woven, implicating the members of a mystical cult, the victim of a beheading, an impostor artist, and the enigmatic presence known only as Agent Vell…
Hang Him When He Is Not There is a novel unlike any other. With keen intelligence, stylistic flair, and a bold philosophy of literary possibilities, Nicholas John Turner has crafted a globe-spanning, time-bending narrative that throws its own readers into the action and scours the darkest reaches of the human psyche: jealousy, betrayal, duplicity, cowardice, and — above all — vanity.
Hang Him When He Is Not There is a novel unlike any other. With keen intelligence, stylistic flair, and a bold philosophy of literary possibilities, Nicholas John Turner has crafted a globe-spanning, time-bending narrative that throws its own readers into the action and scours the darkest reaches of the human psyche: jealousy, betrayal, duplicity, cowardice, and — above all — vanity.
164 pages, Paperback
First published January 31, 2016
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January 29, 2019
Sympathy & Confusion
Sympathy and confusion are parallel themes throughout Hang Him When He Is Not There. The two words appear frequently in each of the episodes which constitute the book. And I suspect, given my own reaction to the text, that sympathy and confusion are precisely the responses that Turner intends from his reader.
Sympathy for the disturbed, disabled, and sometimes demented characters who populate his fictional world. And confusion as a consequence of the un-chronological structure of the story and its largely anonymous narrators, each with a unique voice.
It would be improper (as well as barbaric) to reveal anything other than that, except perhaps one central idea which is required for the reader to keep in mind: “All substances have memories. All are scarred. None forget.” Books are especially prone to such a condition, which is highly infectious.
Sympathy and confusion are parallel themes throughout Hang Him When He Is Not There. The two words appear frequently in each of the episodes which constitute the book. And I suspect, given my own reaction to the text, that sympathy and confusion are precisely the responses that Turner intends from his reader.
Sympathy for the disturbed, disabled, and sometimes demented characters who populate his fictional world. And confusion as a consequence of the un-chronological structure of the story and its largely anonymous narrators, each with a unique voice.
It would be improper (as well as barbaric) to reveal anything other than that, except perhaps one central idea which is required for the reader to keep in mind: “All substances have memories. All are scarred. None forget.” Books are especially prone to such a condition, which is highly infectious.
March 29, 2019
Re-read following its longlisting for the 2019 Republic of Consciousness Prize
This book is one of the first three published by a welcome addition to, and supporter of, the vibrant UK small press scene: Splice.
Splice’s innovative and model operates on three main pillars: the publication of original fiction (starting with three short story collections in 2018 of which this is one); a weekly online review concentrating on other small presses; finally an annual anthology where the previous year’s authors “splice” together their work, and those of another writer who’s work they wish to showcase.
The publication of this book is an interesting story - originally self published in Australia in 2016 and (for a self published book) gaining a surprising amount of coverage, it was picked up by a UK agent (as part of a discussion about a future project) and then the UK and Irish rights acquired by Splice.
Splice appear to have lightly edited the book: when I compare to reviews of the Australian edition I noticed that the chapter headings have been removed and also that the book appears to have had some typos removed (itself a self referential feature given that the narrator of an early chapter is a well paid proof reader)
This is a book which I found very difficult to categorise and one that I think sets out to deny or even deconstruct categorisation. It is perhaps telling that the book’s back cover describes it as a novel, and the publishers website as a short story collection, as it is simultaneously both and neither.
In form the book opens with a brief, enigmatic but moving prologue, continues with seven short stories and concludes with an eight chapter which is effectively a collection of flash fiction pieces, mainly epistolary in nature. Some of these are clearly linked, others not obviously so.
The prologue is narrated by a nursing home worker, reflecting on a patient previously in the “last room” (a sensitively explained idea for someone who has accepted they have reached the last stage of life) who has unexpectedly changed her outlook.
The first chapter is about a writer - a proof reader, facially disfigured in a childhood accident which killed his father, who now specialises in editing government announcements, has recently ghost written an autobiography, and is now visiting a reclusive author.
The second chapter is set in a nursing home around the death of a completely invalid male patient during New Year’s Eve fireworks, a death witnessed, possibly in some mysterious way provoked, by an eccentric female patient known for her aimless, but obsessive, reading of a Gunter Grass novel while she floats around the home and which takes place while the supervising nurses are occupied with baser matters.
Later chapters introduce, or at least appear to introduce us, to: an alcoholic visited by a mysterious messenger; a relationship originating among a cultish group of self described mystics; two brothers and their sexual adventures, and the mysterious artist lodging in the other room in their small guest house; a mysterious Agent visiting a Parisian who, in a double sense, literally entombed he and his wife in his apartment; what seems to be the lives of the two nurses.
At heart though I think the book examines the very concept of art, particularly literature, its creation and even more so consumption.
What does it mean to read a book, and how should a book be read.
This is a book which defies being read in a conventional linear manner, a manner which is described, perhaps exaggerated by the one of the nurses
And our proofreader comments on our innate tendencies as a reader to want to impose order even when it may not be intended.
His own work taking him to the opposite extreme
Perhaps the true act of reading is instead embodied (again with that phrase having a double sense) in the approach of the female nursing home resident, one that is diagnosed by the female nurse as “having evolved to service her psychological disingenuousness” but one better suited to a narrative like this which consciously defies any quest for straightforward narrative linearity
Ultimately the book itself challenges the very act of reading, and by extension, surely even more so the action of reviewing, as a naturally destructive one.
Perhaps acting here like the bee “looking for a flower that resembles” myself, and drawing in my own University training in quantum mechanics, I was reminded here of the Copenhagen interpretation of that subject, and in particular the idea of wave function collapse (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wave_...)
By the very act of reading a book and more so by rendering my reading and interpretation into a review, am I simply collapsing the distribution of possible interpretations that were built into the author’s creation of the book into a single measure of that book.
Ultimately this is a book which itself is acts as a proof of the assertion at the heart of Splice’s reason to exist which is “to attract adventurous readers to the innovative and unconventional works of literature that exists outside the publishing mainstream - works that usually come into being from writers and publishers involved in Britain’s community of small presses”.
This book is one of the first three published by a welcome addition to, and supporter of, the vibrant UK small press scene: Splice.
Splice’s innovative and model operates on three main pillars: the publication of original fiction (starting with three short story collections in 2018 of which this is one); a weekly online review concentrating on other small presses; finally an annual anthology where the previous year’s authors “splice” together their work, and those of another writer who’s work they wish to showcase.
The publication of this book is an interesting story - originally self published in Australia in 2016 and (for a self published book) gaining a surprising amount of coverage, it was picked up by a UK agent (as part of a discussion about a future project) and then the UK and Irish rights acquired by Splice.
Splice appear to have lightly edited the book: when I compare to reviews of the Australian edition I noticed that the chapter headings have been removed and also that the book appears to have had some typos removed (itself a self referential feature given that the narrator of an early chapter is a well paid proof reader)
This is a book which I found very difficult to categorise and one that I think sets out to deny or even deconstruct categorisation. It is perhaps telling that the book’s back cover describes it as a novel, and the publishers website as a short story collection, as it is simultaneously both and neither.
In form the book opens with a brief, enigmatic but moving prologue, continues with seven short stories and concludes with an eight chapter which is effectively a collection of flash fiction pieces, mainly epistolary in nature. Some of these are clearly linked, others not obviously so.
The prologue is narrated by a nursing home worker, reflecting on a patient previously in the “last room” (a sensitively explained idea for someone who has accepted they have reached the last stage of life) who has unexpectedly changed her outlook.
The first chapter is about a writer - a proof reader, facially disfigured in a childhood accident which killed his father, who now specialises in editing government announcements, has recently ghost written an autobiography, and is now visiting a reclusive author.
The second chapter is set in a nursing home around the death of a completely invalid male patient during New Year’s Eve fireworks, a death witnessed, possibly in some mysterious way provoked, by an eccentric female patient known for her aimless, but obsessive, reading of a Gunter Grass novel while she floats around the home and which takes place while the supervising nurses are occupied with baser matters.
Later chapters introduce, or at least appear to introduce us, to: an alcoholic visited by a mysterious messenger; a relationship originating among a cultish group of self described mystics; two brothers and their sexual adventures, and the mysterious artist lodging in the other room in their small guest house; a mysterious Agent visiting a Parisian who, in a double sense, literally entombed he and his wife in his apartment; what seems to be the lives of the two nurses.
At heart though I think the book examines the very concept of art, particularly literature, its creation and even more so consumption.
What does it mean to read a book, and how should a book be read.
This is a book which defies being read in a conventional linear manner, a manner which is described, perhaps exaggerated by the one of the nurses
The young nurse [who many years later - perhaps - becomes a leading literary author, only denied the Man Booker and Miles Franklin Prizes by her insistence on anonymity] likened her own personal experience of reading to the shuffling of a caterpillar, which first drags its back half up, then extends its front to advance. It had something to do with the burden of her mind, her cautiousness, and her desperation to comprehend everything around her before moving on. At the end of every page she .. glanced over to confirm the page number. Then she checked the number on the next page, to ensure that the one correctly followed the other
And our proofreader comments on our innate tendencies as a reader to want to impose order even when it may not be intended.
Even the most highly channeled mind is a relentless assembler of information, a stubborn maker of stories.
His own work taking him to the opposite extreme
I was indeed a proof reader. But even within that specialisation I was a specialist, capable of living for hours, days, weeks or even months among the fine structural details of a text without once concerning myself with its ultimate relevance or value or meaning.
Perhaps the true act of reading is instead embodied (again with that phrase having a double sense) in the approach of the female nursing home resident, one that is diagnosed by the female nurse as “having evolved to service her psychological disingenuousness” but one better suited to a narrative like this which consciously defies any quest for straightforward narrative linearity
Ursula did not read in the conventional fashion of left to right, top to bottom. Instead, she merely opened a page and scanned, seemingly randomly, her eyes following no obvious pattern ........... She is looking for proof of her own life there, as a bee looks for flowers that resemble itself. Which is to say, not by visiting each flower on a single plant in a meticulous and ordered and exhaustive manner.
Ultimately the book itself challenges the very act of reading, and by extension, surely even more so the action of reviewing, as a naturally destructive one.
Given that writing and reading are the reflection of each other (like throwing and catching, speaking and listening....) the phrase “I am reading someone” ... must imply a kind of uncreation (anticreation) or else negation (obliteration?)
Perhaps acting here like the bee “looking for a flower that resembles” myself, and drawing in my own University training in quantum mechanics, I was reminded here of the Copenhagen interpretation of that subject, and in particular the idea of wave function collapse (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wave_...)
By the very act of reading a book and more so by rendering my reading and interpretation into a review, am I simply collapsing the distribution of possible interpretations that were built into the author’s creation of the book into a single measure of that book.
Ultimately this is a book which itself is acts as a proof of the assertion at the heart of Splice’s reason to exist which is “to attract adventurous readers to the innovative and unconventional works of literature that exists outside the publishing mainstream - works that usually come into being from writers and publishers involved in Britain’s community of small presses”.
January 31, 2019
I realise that I am still there, inside the dream, or perhaps assumed by more than one dream, some of which are not my own, caught in a sort of Venn diagram in which the overlapping territory of many dreams forms a small, complex shape.
This book has been on my “to read” list for some time. It’s recent inclusion on the Republic of Consciousness 2019 long list (here) bumped it up towards the top of that list. It comes to us in the UK via Splice. Splice is more than a small publisher. Yes, it publishes books (3 collections of short stories in 2018, of which this is one - although see the debate mentioned below), but it also publishes a weekly online review focussing on other small presses and a yearly anthology. Check out their website: https://thisissplice.co.uk
And so to the book. Is it a novel or is it a short story collection? The publisher’s website refers to it as a novel, although I believe from looking at other reviews that it perhaps used to refer to it as a short story collection. I think perhaps part of the purpose of the book is to blur some of these distinctions. Note also that looking at some earlier reviews suggests that the version published in the UK has undergone a few minor changes. Earlier reviews refer to what would either be chapter titles or short story titles: these are gone in the version I read. Earlier reviews also refer to a number of typos and these did not appear to be there in my version (at least, I don't remember noticing them and I am renowned for my pedantry). I have to say I think the latter of these changes is possibly a mistake given that the main protagonist of the story where they first (apparently) appeared is a proof-reader and I would imagine the typos made a point. Typos further on into the book would then make sense if it is to be considered as a novel. If there were typos, I personally would have left them in.
I find the question “What is this book about?” almost impossible to answer. In fact, I’d go so far as to say a shorter question is equally difficult: “What is this book?”. As I began reading, I struggled to engage with the book. One of the reasons for this is that it quickly becomes apparent that the subject of reading or of literature in general is a key element. Part of me thinks I’ve read rather too many of these kind of incestuous books recently. But this one won me over because it does seem to have a fresh approach and something new to say.
We are presented with seven stories (or chapters). On the face of it, there is little to link these. The first concerns a proof-reader, disfigured in a childhood car accident who is on the way to visit an author. The second chapter concerns the death of a patient in a nursing home which may or may not be linked to one of the other patients, an elderly woman who obsessively reads a Gunter Grass novel (but in a very unconventional way: if you haven’t worked out that the book is about writing and reading and literature and stuff, you will when you get to this point). From there, the chapters branch out introducing us to a series of weird and wonderful characters.
I don’t know about you, but I occasionally drift away for a paragraph or two when reading a book. Normally, this doesn’t matter. When I manage to undistract myself I can piece together the missing parts very quickly. This book will punish you if you don’t keep your concentration. It jumps around, makes sudden turns, dives into a dream (or a dream within a dream, maybe) or introduces sudden plot elements from nowhere. If you let you mind wander while your eyes keep reading, you will suddenly realise you don’t know what is going on or how on earth you got to the point where you re-enter.
But, to return to the purpose of the book, I think this is also part of that. It is a book that very much questions what we mean when we say we have read a book. Yes, it is concerned at times with how a work of literature comes into being, but it seems far more concerned with how it then consumed by its readers. As an example, consider the elderly female patient I mentioned above. About her we read:
Ursula did not read in the conventional fashion of left to right, top to bottom. Instead, she merely opened a page and scanned, seemingly randomly, her eyes following no obvious pattern…
And this is because:
She is looking for proof of her own life there, as a bee looks for flowers that resemble itself. Which is to say, not by visiting each flower on a single plant in a meticulous and ordered and exhaustive manner.
I think this is a book that requires a second reading. It feels to me as though there are connections built into the narrative but that some of those are forward looking i.e. you can’t see them as you read them, only as you look back. But my trouble is that the book is so convoluted that I couldn’t hold it all. I think reading again knowing what is coming might reveal some additional connections. For a reader on their first time through, it is likely that the main connections will be realised right at the end of the book where the eighth chapter presents a series of short pieces that again jump around although some of them are clearly connected and some are linking back to the initial seven stories/chapters.
You may emerge from reading this feeling like you have been having some very vivid and weird dreams or that you have been hallucinating after eating some strange mushrooms (that one is just a guess - I haven’t done that myself). But you will also probably have a sense that there is something there just waiting for the last piece to fall into place. For me, it is to the credit of the book that it does not give you that last piece but leaves the other bits floating around in your mind in the hope that your subconscious will provide the piece it needs.
At least, that’s how it feels to me.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
AFTER A RE-READ - SOME SPOILERS HERE IF YOU PLAN TO WORK THINGS OUT FOR YOURSELF
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
And, of course, some of the spoilers may actually be misinformation (otherwise known as "my mistakes"). It's that kind of book.
As expected after my first read, this book has a lot to offer on second read. And a second read suggests that a third and probably fourth read would reap further benefits, but I am not sure when/if I will get to that.
I made a lot more connections this time round and the work felt more like a novel than a short story collection. That said, there are still several pieces I cannot easily work into the overall story.
If you have not read the book, I suggest you read no further.
Some quotes that were helpful either first or second time through:
Story 1:
He thrust a manila folder into my hand before swearing at me and running away. It was a collection of stories, some of them mythical, set in Brisbane, Launceston, and towns in Greece. I read them for pleasure, but ultimately returned them unmarked.
Story 6:
As a child I was unimaginably cruel, and my face was transformed, in one perfect instant, into the very image of my terrible soul.
Refers back to Story 1 and supported, a few paragraphs later, by
My own mother, once a small, athletic and lively woman, grew suddenly bloated and old and hunched, in order that she should not have to look up at my face any more.
Story 7:
Art was searching for Local Anaesthetic and Jennifer for Cat and Mouse (indeed, they were not only both looking for Günter Grass books, but looking for books from the same era, and specifically for the dusted gold/bronze Penguin editions that had been issued in the seventies).
Followed almost immediately by:
At the time she was seeing a boy who was a medical intern.
Identifies Jennifer and places her in Story 2.
This story also places Jennifer in Story 1 when the narrator makes the wrong assumption about the gender of the author he is meeting.
These are just suppositions that I note for my own benefit. They could be completely wrong, but hopefully you haven't read this far if you haven't read the book and if you have read the book you can draw your own conclusions.
This book has been on my “to read” list for some time. It’s recent inclusion on the Republic of Consciousness 2019 long list (here) bumped it up towards the top of that list. It comes to us in the UK via Splice. Splice is more than a small publisher. Yes, it publishes books (3 collections of short stories in 2018, of which this is one - although see the debate mentioned below), but it also publishes a weekly online review focussing on other small presses and a yearly anthology. Check out their website: https://thisissplice.co.uk
And so to the book. Is it a novel or is it a short story collection? The publisher’s website refers to it as a novel, although I believe from looking at other reviews that it perhaps used to refer to it as a short story collection. I think perhaps part of the purpose of the book is to blur some of these distinctions. Note also that looking at some earlier reviews suggests that the version published in the UK has undergone a few minor changes. Earlier reviews refer to what would either be chapter titles or short story titles: these are gone in the version I read. Earlier reviews also refer to a number of typos and these did not appear to be there in my version (at least, I don't remember noticing them and I am renowned for my pedantry). I have to say I think the latter of these changes is possibly a mistake given that the main protagonist of the story where they first (apparently) appeared is a proof-reader and I would imagine the typos made a point. Typos further on into the book would then make sense if it is to be considered as a novel. If there were typos, I personally would have left them in.
I find the question “What is this book about?” almost impossible to answer. In fact, I’d go so far as to say a shorter question is equally difficult: “What is this book?”. As I began reading, I struggled to engage with the book. One of the reasons for this is that it quickly becomes apparent that the subject of reading or of literature in general is a key element. Part of me thinks I’ve read rather too many of these kind of incestuous books recently. But this one won me over because it does seem to have a fresh approach and something new to say.
We are presented with seven stories (or chapters). On the face of it, there is little to link these. The first concerns a proof-reader, disfigured in a childhood car accident who is on the way to visit an author. The second chapter concerns the death of a patient in a nursing home which may or may not be linked to one of the other patients, an elderly woman who obsessively reads a Gunter Grass novel (but in a very unconventional way: if you haven’t worked out that the book is about writing and reading and literature and stuff, you will when you get to this point). From there, the chapters branch out introducing us to a series of weird and wonderful characters.
I don’t know about you, but I occasionally drift away for a paragraph or two when reading a book. Normally, this doesn’t matter. When I manage to undistract myself I can piece together the missing parts very quickly. This book will punish you if you don’t keep your concentration. It jumps around, makes sudden turns, dives into a dream (or a dream within a dream, maybe) or introduces sudden plot elements from nowhere. If you let you mind wander while your eyes keep reading, you will suddenly realise you don’t know what is going on or how on earth you got to the point where you re-enter.
But, to return to the purpose of the book, I think this is also part of that. It is a book that very much questions what we mean when we say we have read a book. Yes, it is concerned at times with how a work of literature comes into being, but it seems far more concerned with how it then consumed by its readers. As an example, consider the elderly female patient I mentioned above. About her we read:
Ursula did not read in the conventional fashion of left to right, top to bottom. Instead, she merely opened a page and scanned, seemingly randomly, her eyes following no obvious pattern…
And this is because:
She is looking for proof of her own life there, as a bee looks for flowers that resemble itself. Which is to say, not by visiting each flower on a single plant in a meticulous and ordered and exhaustive manner.
I think this is a book that requires a second reading. It feels to me as though there are connections built into the narrative but that some of those are forward looking i.e. you can’t see them as you read them, only as you look back. But my trouble is that the book is so convoluted that I couldn’t hold it all. I think reading again knowing what is coming might reveal some additional connections. For a reader on their first time through, it is likely that the main connections will be realised right at the end of the book where the eighth chapter presents a series of short pieces that again jump around although some of them are clearly connected and some are linking back to the initial seven stories/chapters.
You may emerge from reading this feeling like you have been having some very vivid and weird dreams or that you have been hallucinating after eating some strange mushrooms (that one is just a guess - I haven’t done that myself). But you will also probably have a sense that there is something there just waiting for the last piece to fall into place. For me, it is to the credit of the book that it does not give you that last piece but leaves the other bits floating around in your mind in the hope that your subconscious will provide the piece it needs.
At least, that’s how it feels to me.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
AFTER A RE-READ - SOME SPOILERS HERE IF YOU PLAN TO WORK THINGS OUT FOR YOURSELF
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
And, of course, some of the spoilers may actually be misinformation (otherwise known as "my mistakes"). It's that kind of book.
As expected after my first read, this book has a lot to offer on second read. And a second read suggests that a third and probably fourth read would reap further benefits, but I am not sure when/if I will get to that.
I made a lot more connections this time round and the work felt more like a novel than a short story collection. That said, there are still several pieces I cannot easily work into the overall story.
If you have not read the book, I suggest you read no further.
Some quotes that were helpful either first or second time through:
Story 1:
He thrust a manila folder into my hand before swearing at me and running away. It was a collection of stories, some of them mythical, set in Brisbane, Launceston, and towns in Greece. I read them for pleasure, but ultimately returned them unmarked.
Story 6:
As a child I was unimaginably cruel, and my face was transformed, in one perfect instant, into the very image of my terrible soul.
Refers back to Story 1 and supported, a few paragraphs later, by
My own mother, once a small, athletic and lively woman, grew suddenly bloated and old and hunched, in order that she should not have to look up at my face any more.
Story 7:
Art was searching for Local Anaesthetic and Jennifer for Cat and Mouse (indeed, they were not only both looking for Günter Grass books, but looking for books from the same era, and specifically for the dusted gold/bronze Penguin editions that had been issued in the seventies).
Followed almost immediately by:
At the time she was seeing a boy who was a medical intern.
Identifies Jennifer and places her in Story 2.
This story also places Jennifer in Story 1 when the narrator makes the wrong assumption about the gender of the author he is meeting.
These are just suppositions that I note for my own benefit. They could be completely wrong, but hopefully you haven't read this far if you haven't read the book and if you have read the book you can draw your own conclusions.
February 11, 2019
Longlisted for the Republic of Consciousness Prize 2019
Another book that occupies the grey area between novel and short story collection. The sections are numbered but unnamed, and the first six or so appear to be self contained if in some cases elliptical stories. The 7th has clear links to several earlier "chapters" and the 8th, which is a series of shorter fragments, also links some of the others.
The effect is a kind of intellectual puzzle which I felt I had not entirely solved. One recurring theme seems to be people trapped between states that are normally regarded as binary such as life and death. There is also a theme concerning the processes and philosophical nature of reading and writing.
The whole is rather intriguing and would probably reward rereading.
Another book that occupies the grey area between novel and short story collection. The sections are numbered but unnamed, and the first six or so appear to be self contained if in some cases elliptical stories. The 7th has clear links to several earlier "chapters" and the 8th, which is a series of shorter fragments, also links some of the others.
The effect is a kind of intellectual puzzle which I felt I had not entirely solved. One recurring theme seems to be people trapped between states that are normally regarded as binary such as life and death. There is also a theme concerning the processes and philosophical nature of reading and writing.
The whole is rather intriguing and would probably reward rereading.
January 17, 2019
Longlisted for the 2019 Republic of Consciousness Prize
The judges' citation:
Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations
He half heartedly read a couple of pages of Jennifer's book on the toilet, but he didn't understand them, or else their meaning didn't reveal itself quickly enough.
the character Art
One night on a field in Vietnam I stopped to sleep inside an empty cottage or else a hut. There was nothing inside and no-one around. I was woken by deer looking in through the open windows, bleating, or else making some kind of terrible sound. I got up and left, shoving aside a huge doe that was blocking the doorway. I remember the meaty feeling of my shoulder as it drove into her chest, throwing her back a pace. I was not followed. I moved on. It went on forever like that. Then one night I was chased along the Indian border by a pack of children or else very small people wearing masks, which was like the subcontinent itself anthropomorphising to capture me. I was caught and thrown over the back of a motorcycle and driven into a cave in the side of a mountain. There a woman with layer upon layer of ruffled skirts and nothing to cover her breasts tried to talk to me in a language I didn’t know. Then she used a language I did know. She asked me what it would cost to make me leave the East forever. I realised that she was frightened of me, but I also understood that she was obviously the bravest of people, and that that was why she’d been given the task of bargaining with me. I don’t remember answering her. Instead I woke up with a new face, which is to say as another person. I was in Peru, in civilian clothes, in a market, and there was a Japanese girl trying to talk to me. I didn’t understand her. Not then, nor ever.
from a longer extract at https://thisissplice.co.uk/2018/10/16...
There are times as a reader that one may be in the presence of greatness but that equally one simply didn't personally get the book, perhaps saying as much about one's own failings than the book itself. The most famous example for me is Pessoa's Book of Disquiet, but a more contemporary and relevant example would be last year's Republic of Consciousness shortlisted (by a jury of which I was a member) Darker With The Lights On. This novel (? or short story collection, even the publisher seems unclear) is another example of innovative writing from a small independent press.
I would point people to reviews from others who got far more from the book than I managed:
from my identical twin:
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
http://daniel-young.com/reviews/revie...
https://www.anticmagazine.com.au/a-re...
The judges' citation:
Originally published in Australia in January 2016, and largely overlooked at the time, this debut seems – at first glance – to be made up of free-standing short stories. On reading, and re-reading, however, the links and reflections begin to become apparent. Those gathering certainties are then complicated again . . . . This is the novel as hall of mirrors, and it rewards you for following it to the end.“I can look for him when he is not there, but not hang him when he is not there”
Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations
He half heartedly read a couple of pages of Jennifer's book on the toilet, but he didn't understand them, or else their meaning didn't reveal itself quickly enough.
the character Art
One night on a field in Vietnam I stopped to sleep inside an empty cottage or else a hut. There was nothing inside and no-one around. I was woken by deer looking in through the open windows, bleating, or else making some kind of terrible sound. I got up and left, shoving aside a huge doe that was blocking the doorway. I remember the meaty feeling of my shoulder as it drove into her chest, throwing her back a pace. I was not followed. I moved on. It went on forever like that. Then one night I was chased along the Indian border by a pack of children or else very small people wearing masks, which was like the subcontinent itself anthropomorphising to capture me. I was caught and thrown over the back of a motorcycle and driven into a cave in the side of a mountain. There a woman with layer upon layer of ruffled skirts and nothing to cover her breasts tried to talk to me in a language I didn’t know. Then she used a language I did know. She asked me what it would cost to make me leave the East forever. I realised that she was frightened of me, but I also understood that she was obviously the bravest of people, and that that was why she’d been given the task of bargaining with me. I don’t remember answering her. Instead I woke up with a new face, which is to say as another person. I was in Peru, in civilian clothes, in a market, and there was a Japanese girl trying to talk to me. I didn’t understand her. Not then, nor ever.
from a longer extract at https://thisissplice.co.uk/2018/10/16...
There are times as a reader that one may be in the presence of greatness but that equally one simply didn't personally get the book, perhaps saying as much about one's own failings than the book itself. The most famous example for me is Pessoa's Book of Disquiet, but a more contemporary and relevant example would be last year's Republic of Consciousness shortlisted (by a jury of which I was a member) Darker With The Lights On. This novel (? or short story collection, even the publisher seems unclear) is another example of innovative writing from a small independent press.
I would point people to reviews from others who got far more from the book than I managed:
from my identical twin:
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
http://daniel-young.com/reviews/revie...
https://www.anticmagazine.com.au/a-re...
April 15, 2019
Damn, the opening chapters were so incredibly riveting but the author and his editor really fell asleep farther in. I have just read a chapter and a half of some of the crappiest prose ever, with eyerollingly god-awful sex scenes to boot. I’m done. Bailed 70% of the way in.
March 16, 2022
A novel in fragments. What connections the fragments share are subtle, even willfully obscure.
There was a death at an old folks home and an amanuensis for an author who is not what he seems, and a Japanese woman with locked knees and an ‘agent’ of whom nothing is known besides his Nephilim-like size and weaponry. There was some obscure literary theorizing.
The book really did a good job of making me feel removed from the known map of culture and literature, like maybe I was even in one of those strangely lit zones you fall into in a David Lynch movie (without the DL camp, though). These fragments are often told in a very alienating first-person that talks to someone you get no description of or that goes on describing at length without any kind of personal opinion or coloration. Nicholas John Turner’s goal here, I think, was for me to grapple with obscurity and alienation and for me to question more and more whose hand I was holding through this book. It was unsettling in the best way.
There was a death at an old folks home and an amanuensis for an author who is not what he seems, and a Japanese woman with locked knees and an ‘agent’ of whom nothing is known besides his Nephilim-like size and weaponry. There was some obscure literary theorizing.
The book really did a good job of making me feel removed from the known map of culture and literature, like maybe I was even in one of those strangely lit zones you fall into in a David Lynch movie (without the DL camp, though). These fragments are often told in a very alienating first-person that talks to someone you get no description of or that goes on describing at length without any kind of personal opinion or coloration. Nicholas John Turner’s goal here, I think, was for me to grapple with obscurity and alienation and for me to question more and more whose hand I was holding through this book. It was unsettling in the best way.
February 12, 2019
From the Republic of Consciousness Prize for Small Presses 2019 longlist – Hang Him When He Is Not There by Nicholas John Turner.
This book is disorientating. It reads as a series of short stories that the reader expects will eventually interlink – it is, after all, described as a novel. Some chapters are more straightforward than others. Some are distinctly weird. A threatening undercurrent weaves itself through the pages, shadows not quite glimpsed in passing. There is a viciousness to certain thoughts and interactions. Few of the characters are likable, not that this is necessary.
Settings vary but include: a care home, a vineyard, an apartment crowded by books, a decaying family home, rooms let to tourists by an elderly lady. A proof reader travels to meet a reclusive author; in later stories we learn more about their lives. A chapter tells of two brothers on holiday; they reappear in the background of another tale. Books and how they are read are a recurring feature – meta considering the challenge of pinning down what this book is saying.
One theme I plucked from the many permutations of characters’ narrative and observations was the disturbance felt on registering that a person one is close to is not as thought and treated as, perhaps for many years. It is impossible to fully understand all that goes on inside another’s head and one is rarely the centre of another’s universe however much they appear attentive and to revere.
I pondered if the author is offering a work that demands readers change and change again their interpretations as they progress through its pages.
The Mystics chapter was particularly challenging to read due to the brutality. Sexual or bodily explicit scenes throughout offer nothing pleasant. People within these stories are not conventionally good looking – flaws are described vividly. There is the suggestion of personal darkness that few acknowledge, an innate coarseness veneered by observers as much as self.
So, what was the author trying to convey in writing this way?
“I’ll do better than to tell you about a dream I had. I’ll tell you how it was to have this dream. But not before telling you how it was to recall having had it. Everything is everything.”
There are obvious plays with language and form. More was gleaned on a second reading. Ultimately though this was a book that left me perplexed and somewhat frustrated, despite best efforts. The intricacies offered were tantalisingly elusive, viewed through a glass darkly. I wonder if this was intended.
This book is disorientating. It reads as a series of short stories that the reader expects will eventually interlink – it is, after all, described as a novel. Some chapters are more straightforward than others. Some are distinctly weird. A threatening undercurrent weaves itself through the pages, shadows not quite glimpsed in passing. There is a viciousness to certain thoughts and interactions. Few of the characters are likable, not that this is necessary.
Settings vary but include: a care home, a vineyard, an apartment crowded by books, a decaying family home, rooms let to tourists by an elderly lady. A proof reader travels to meet a reclusive author; in later stories we learn more about their lives. A chapter tells of two brothers on holiday; they reappear in the background of another tale. Books and how they are read are a recurring feature – meta considering the challenge of pinning down what this book is saying.
One theme I plucked from the many permutations of characters’ narrative and observations was the disturbance felt on registering that a person one is close to is not as thought and treated as, perhaps for many years. It is impossible to fully understand all that goes on inside another’s head and one is rarely the centre of another’s universe however much they appear attentive and to revere.
I pondered if the author is offering a work that demands readers change and change again their interpretations as they progress through its pages.
The Mystics chapter was particularly challenging to read due to the brutality. Sexual or bodily explicit scenes throughout offer nothing pleasant. People within these stories are not conventionally good looking – flaws are described vividly. There is the suggestion of personal darkness that few acknowledge, an innate coarseness veneered by observers as much as self.
So, what was the author trying to convey in writing this way?
“I’ll do better than to tell you about a dream I had. I’ll tell you how it was to have this dream. But not before telling you how it was to recall having had it. Everything is everything.”
There are obvious plays with language and form. More was gleaned on a second reading. Ultimately though this was a book that left me perplexed and somewhat frustrated, despite best efforts. The intricacies offered were tantalisingly elusive, viewed through a glass darkly. I wonder if this was intended.
February 10, 2019
A bewildering sort-of-a-novel. To untangle something as tangled as Hang Him When He Is Not There, I’d rather consider it a collection of short stories and appreciate it on the sentence level without attempting to make sense of it as a whole. There’s also the tiny suspicion in me that the AUS original appeared more as a collection whereas the UK edition omits chapter titles and therefore ascribes novel value to it, in both senses of ‘novel.’ (Call it a novel and it’s instantly more marketable, even though this is obviously in the very experimental end of the spectrum.) Be as it may, Turner’s writing is excellent and these stories were harrowing to read in a positive sense. The book lifted me from a minor reading slump right from page 1 – I enjoyed the reading process very much.
May 19, 2016
‘Hang Him When He Is not There’ is a daring debut by Nicholas John Turner, a writer unafraid of taking chances, committed to an aesthetic and philosophical ideal of fiction.
As a contemporary reader, we are so conditioned for certain ‘literary’ expectations. Reading this collection of stories was an incredibly refreshing experience, especially in an era of ‘best sellers’ and the formulaic production of wholly predictable literary fiction.
This slim book knows where it is going and what it wants to do. It doesn’t give you the easy and quick satisfactions of conventional plot, yet it is highly readable; one yearns to know what comes next, how the stories connect, longs to discover the hidden heart. Turner’s prose is highly polished, hypnotic and addictive.
A number of stories are told through a variety of voices – each one compelling, mysterious and entertaining. Although the central thrust is the question of how these stories are connected, each one is complete in of itself.
There are stories about a man with an un-quenchable thirst for alcohol, a reclusive author of genius, raw sexuality in the Caribbean paradise of Cartagena, a man whose existence had been stalled by his unending collection of books, a mysterious death in a nursing home that may or may not be connected to a witch obsessed with reading Gunter Grass. The author includes much in this slim volume, which is not apparent due to the succinctness of the prose.
The stories have a haunting quality. One yearns to know what it is about each that moves or compel us. Like a dream, meaning seems tantalisingly close, but just beyond the reach of understanding. This is its source of power.
That is not to say the novel is difficult. While the novel can be considered as conceptual and avant garde, it is high readable and I read many of the stories, especially ‘The Mystics’, ‘Cartagena’ and ‘What I Mean When I Say’ with a compulsion I have not experienced since reading ‘The Savage Detectives’ by Roberto Bolano.
The disparate stories, seemingly unconnected, in fact are – although it is not made explicitly in any particular section. The readers must do some work here, and Turner does not condescend to lay everything out. The author leaves plenty of room for the reader to bring their own interpretations of meaning. For my own reading, I believe the stories together may be read as the author’s comment about fiction making and authorship and its power to consume both author and reader.
Turner’s enquiry, into the nature of life and literature, is wide, macroscopic. In searching for the link between these stories, I found myself making enquiries of myself of the mysterious passage of my own life and my own relationship with reading literature. This cannot be understated.
I hope you the reader, will take a chance on a piece of daring literature (if that is what you seek). You will be rewarded if you do.
As a contemporary reader, we are so conditioned for certain ‘literary’ expectations. Reading this collection of stories was an incredibly refreshing experience, especially in an era of ‘best sellers’ and the formulaic production of wholly predictable literary fiction.
This slim book knows where it is going and what it wants to do. It doesn’t give you the easy and quick satisfactions of conventional plot, yet it is highly readable; one yearns to know what comes next, how the stories connect, longs to discover the hidden heart. Turner’s prose is highly polished, hypnotic and addictive.
A number of stories are told through a variety of voices – each one compelling, mysterious and entertaining. Although the central thrust is the question of how these stories are connected, each one is complete in of itself.
There are stories about a man with an un-quenchable thirst for alcohol, a reclusive author of genius, raw sexuality in the Caribbean paradise of Cartagena, a man whose existence had been stalled by his unending collection of books, a mysterious death in a nursing home that may or may not be connected to a witch obsessed with reading Gunter Grass. The author includes much in this slim volume, which is not apparent due to the succinctness of the prose.
The stories have a haunting quality. One yearns to know what it is about each that moves or compel us. Like a dream, meaning seems tantalisingly close, but just beyond the reach of understanding. This is its source of power.
That is not to say the novel is difficult. While the novel can be considered as conceptual and avant garde, it is high readable and I read many of the stories, especially ‘The Mystics’, ‘Cartagena’ and ‘What I Mean When I Say’ with a compulsion I have not experienced since reading ‘The Savage Detectives’ by Roberto Bolano.
The disparate stories, seemingly unconnected, in fact are – although it is not made explicitly in any particular section. The readers must do some work here, and Turner does not condescend to lay everything out. The author leaves plenty of room for the reader to bring their own interpretations of meaning. For my own reading, I believe the stories together may be read as the author’s comment about fiction making and authorship and its power to consume both author and reader.
Turner’s enquiry, into the nature of life and literature, is wide, macroscopic. In searching for the link between these stories, I found myself making enquiries of myself of the mysterious passage of my own life and my own relationship with reading literature. This cannot be understated.
I hope you the reader, will take a chance on a piece of daring literature (if that is what you seek). You will be rewarded if you do.
January 30, 2019
I read this as part of the 2019 Republic of Consciousness Longlist. Set in Australia, it first appears as a book of short stories but I have read in other reviews that there are connections between the different parts that appear after a second reading. I hope it makes the RofC shortlist but will read it again regardless. I plan to add to this review after the next reading, when I am sure there will be much more to say!
August 8, 2017
The elusive value of a proof-reader who everyone wants to employ, but devotes himself to an author described as a 'vortex'...the mystery of the criminal nurses, a narrator who addresses you straight up, a forgotten thriller written by a mystic in Brisbane's Southbank...Nicholas Turner's collection of stories "Hang him when he is not there" is a brilliant, postmodern journey through a contemporary, urban world of imagination. This is not like anything else you have ever read, a book that goes beyond the Australian grunge literature of the 90s...if you are ready for a scary, Royal Show ride through language and labyrinthine mind games, you should read this book..."Where was I going? Towards my fate, that's all I know".
January 8, 2017
Review now online: http://daniel-young.com/reviews/revie...
July 31, 2021
The primary plot of Hang Him When He Is Not There is one for readers to puzzle out: What connects a reclusive writer, a shadowy editor, and an elderly man from a nursing home who dies during a fireworks display?
The novel’s structure reminded me of Steven Wright’s Going Native (1994), in which the relationship of the chapters to each other didn’t become clear (to me, anyhow) until the last sentence. I recall thinking that it as a bold task to set before oneself as a storyteller—but whether the pay-off was worth the tight-wire act, Wright’s novel left me ambivalent about.
In Hang Him When He Is Not There, however, Nicholas John Turner starts a few pages earlier than the end to help the reader being to piece together the pieces. And although the novel doesn’t snap together on the last page, Turner leaves plenty of clues along the way regarding how the novel’s characters are related, and who did what and when. Descriptive phrases, events, times, places, and characters (although not by name) recur sporadically throughout the novel, serving as the connective thread. No doubt that the resonances of the first reading would resolve into a clearer picture in the second.
The novel’s structure reminded me of Steven Wright’s Going Native (1994), in which the relationship of the chapters to each other didn’t become clear (to me, anyhow) until the last sentence. I recall thinking that it as a bold task to set before oneself as a storyteller—but whether the pay-off was worth the tight-wire act, Wright’s novel left me ambivalent about.
In Hang Him When He Is Not There, however, Nicholas John Turner starts a few pages earlier than the end to help the reader being to piece together the pieces. And although the novel doesn’t snap together on the last page, Turner leaves plenty of clues along the way regarding how the novel’s characters are related, and who did what and when. Descriptive phrases, events, times, places, and characters (although not by name) recur sporadically throughout the novel, serving as the connective thread. No doubt that the resonances of the first reading would resolve into a clearer picture in the second.
Read
December 20, 2021Doing another read-through before adding a rating!
July 23, 2021
In a world where physical bookshops, and salespeople who appreciate what's on their own shelves, are fast disappearing, it's probably a minor (but welcome) miracle that this debut work by Brisbane author Nicholas John Turner has been published at all.
As a 'novel' (or collection of linked fragments - call it what you will) that clearly falls into the category of 'postmodern', this book was never designed to be a crowd-pleaser, and I'm probably the last person on earth who is capable of evaluating it fairly, given my own anti-postmodernistic bent. It's clearly a serious, challenging, work, and I note that a previous, slightly different, edition found considerable favour with many who reviewed it on Goodreads.
I personally find the work clever in parts, but chilling and disgusting in equal measure, and would find it hard to recommend to any of my friends. For ambition and integrity, I'd give it five stars, but on other grounds I struggle to give it any stars at all. Hence my middle-of-the-road three star rating here.
For what it's worth, I've written a considerably more detailed personal response here — curmudgeonly yes, but occasionally appreciative: https://www.peterdannauthor.com/ficti...
As a 'novel' (or collection of linked fragments - call it what you will) that clearly falls into the category of 'postmodern', this book was never designed to be a crowd-pleaser, and I'm probably the last person on earth who is capable of evaluating it fairly, given my own anti-postmodernistic bent. It's clearly a serious, challenging, work, and I note that a previous, slightly different, edition found considerable favour with many who reviewed it on Goodreads.
I personally find the work clever in parts, but chilling and disgusting in equal measure, and would find it hard to recommend to any of my friends. For ambition and integrity, I'd give it five stars, but on other grounds I struggle to give it any stars at all. Hence my middle-of-the-road three star rating here.
For what it's worth, I've written a considerably more detailed personal response here — curmudgeonly yes, but occasionally appreciative: https://www.peterdannauthor.com/ficti...
August 16, 2020
I must admit I don't understand the value to fiction writing of being cryptic and elliptical. I want fiction to be immersive; trying to work out what's happening or what the happenings are supposed to mean is anti-immersive. It's a pity, because this author can really write. Extremely reminiscent of David Foster Wallace, replete with similar tics ("X or else Y" got a bit much) and metafictional hijinks. A story of Turner's I read elsewhere - a comical account of "your author" participating in a marathon - showed off the brilliant writing while making casually funny and insightful observations without seeming to try. Here the writing is mostly great too, but it gives me a headache because it's like I'm trying to read through a shower door. To me this kind of writing is like a singer burying his voice in reverb because he's not confident it can carry the melody. I hope NJT gets confident in his voice for his next book.
Want to read
February 1, 2019I honestly did not get much from what I read. The long blocks of text were intimidating for me and I found myself simply skimming through them more than a couple of times.
I liked the Prologue though, and would really love to know more about the character at its center and the untold tales of the nursing home where she resides. :)
*I read an excerpt of this book on The Pigeonhole app as part of The Republic of Consciousness Prize 2019 anthology. This title has been longlisted for The Republic of Consciousness Prize for Small Presses 2019.
I liked the Prologue though, and would really love to know more about the character at its center and the untold tales of the nursing home where she resides. :)
*I read an excerpt of this book on The Pigeonhole app as part of The Republic of Consciousness Prize 2019 anthology. This title has been longlisted for The Republic of Consciousness Prize for Small Presses 2019.
Read
July 3, 2024The book almost feels like a short story collection, but it’s got this strong sense of connection that’s compellingly obvious and elusive. Wild to have all of this cohesively packed into 160 pages. It’s like a DFW-esque maximalist novella.
March 23, 2025
so good i emailed the publisher and it turned out to be the guy himself
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