Gene Wolfe wrote a story called 'The Island of Doctor Death and Other Stories', which in turn enabled him to put it out in a collection earnestly labelled 'The Island of Doctor Death and Other Stories and Other Stories'. As a literary joke this is rather fun. Was it only a joke? The more I read into Wolfe’s fiction the more sure I become that for this author nothing is ever really just a matter of wordplay. Later he wrote stories called The Death of Dr. Island and Death of the Island Doctor, both of which are also featured in this collection. All three are quite different in style and apparently unrelated.
In The Island of Doctor Death and Other Stories, a boy comes upon a paperback novel in a drugstore. The boy has the pleasingly odd name of Tackman Babcock, though he’s mainly referred to in the second person singular — as if he were you, the reader.
Tackman is fascinated by the book:
‘The covers are glossy stiff cardboard, and on the front is a picture of a man in rags fighting a thing partly like an ape and partly like a man, but much worse than either.’
Jason, the older man he’s with, says: ‘That’s camp. Did you know that?’. Is it camp? Tackman doesn’t really know what this world means, but in this context it would seem to be Jason’s way of dismissing what he sees as meaningless frippery.
The story unfolds at first in direct quotation from the books: a somewhat butchered version of The Island of Dr Moreau, complete with a sinister vivisectionist and his half-human, half-animal creations. It is not long, however, before those characters become part of Tackman’s world in a very immediate way. Jason is not his father, and there is something strange going on at the costume party that evening.
The story assumes a shape which is somehow comforting, even through the chaos. Adult life is complicated, even incomprehensible, to you; but a white man’s adventures on strange foreign soil somehow make sense of it all. The story has it all — even pleasant moral platitudes, like ‘the evil are always foolish in the final analysis’. It is an appealing balance.
And it ends on a strange note: a sudden tragedy — or a sudden crime — and Doctor Death at the boy’s elbow, reassuring him that when he starts reading the story over again the characters will resume all their old roles. You’re too young to realise, he says, but it’s the same with you. The dominance of these archetypes is eternal, it seems. It’s hard to decipher whether this is a promise or a threat.
***
The Death of Dr Island works a little differently. It is a science fiction story, though that much takes a while to become apparent: at first it appears to be about a boy on a desert island. His name is Nicholas Kenneth de Vore. Something has happened to Nick. Paragraphs of description are peppered with uncanny details: initially he emerges into the world via a hatch; his body is marked with traces of sutures; he hears voices which seem to come directly from the flora, fauna, and waves.
Sometimes he screams:
‘His screaming was high-pitched, and each breath ended in a gibbering, ululant note, after which came the hollow, iron gasp of the next indrawn breath. On one occasion he had screamed in this way, without cessation, for fourteen hours and twenty-two minutes, at the end of which a nursing nun with an exemplary record stretching back seventeen years had administered an injection without the permission of the attending physician.’
And he is not alone on the island. There are at least two others there: Ignacio, a violent and unpredictable older boy, and Diane, a strange young woman with whom Nick becomes involved. The island is part of a facility designed to contain the mentally ill. Nick has been through surgery to separate the two sides of his brain.
What is this story? It’s a wild, strange, linguistic safari. Wolfe’s prose has a tendency to skip lightly along, as if he had written it out then carefully excised every alternate excessive concrete detail. He seems to encourage that feeling of being slightly lost. At its best it is mysterious, but sometimes it is slightly confounding. Writing about this now I find myself slightly at a loss to explain what this story is about, or even approach a satisfactory description of it.
The story ends with Nick destroying the island — with the literal death of the thing, Dr Island. Is it a metaphor for how fighting against mental illness sometimes entails the destruction of the system of treatment itself? I don’t know. There is an elusiveness here, a resistance to interpretation, that makes me think of Nabokov in its playful textual manipulations; but also writers like Cormac McCarthy in terms of that muscular, allusive, dark, and wholly American style.
***
Death of the Island Doctor is only a few pages long. It describes a retired professor, a man ‘a little cracked’, who is given the opportunity of running a seminar by his university. His name is Dr Insula and he asks to teach about islands:
‘I may also decide to include isles, atolls, islets, holms, eyots, archipelagoes, and some of the larger reefs…it depends how they come along, you know. But definitely not peninsulas.’
It is not especially clear whether this is intended to be a history class or a literature class. But at first, the question turns out to be irrelevant; the university awards the course no credit, and so of course no students attend. Insula goes on teaching his none-existent class for six years until, by a happy administrative accident, it is awarded a tiny amount of credit, and two students show up.
They are a young man and a young woman, and since it is only them they go to his house to receive the seminar. He serves them tea, and talks to them:
‘He told them of Lucian’s travels to Antioch, Greece, Italy, and Gaul, and this led him to speak of the ships of that time and the danger of storms and piracy, and the enchantment of the Greek isles. He told them of Apollo’s birth on Delos; of Patmos, where Saint John beheld the Apocalypse; and of Phraxos, where the sorcerer Conchis dwelt. He said, “‘to cleave that sea in the gentle autumnal season, murmuring the name of each islet, is to my mind the joy most apt to transport the heart of man to paradise.’” But because it did not rhyme, the young man and young woman did not know he was quoting a famous tale.’
He gives them homework, too: Dr Insula tells them to take a little boat to an actual island, a specific place in their locality. He instructs them to come to their next meeting prepared to describe what it is they found magical there. And so they go, and nothing at all of note happens. The reader knows, I’m sure, that when the young man and young woman return for their next seminar they will find that old Dr Insula has since died; but how much more mysterious for him to be found sitting in the old boat in his garage, as if to set out to sea again one last time.
This is one of Wolfe’s more comfortable stories, I think. In some ways it is gently conservative. It has a tone reminiscent of Calvino or Borges: that sense of a bibliophilia beautiful for its own sake which regardless becomes a sort of mental prison, a labyrinth of its own making, in which the protagonist is never quite sure if he is Theseus or the Minotaur. Dr Insula will never do anything again other than teach this non-existent class. He there in perpetuity. I don’t know if there isn’t something horrifying about this.
Hope is manifest in the young man and young woman. (They are pointedly described as ‘young’ throughout.) The final line implies that they formed a relationship, and that later they came to realise Dr Insula wasn’t wrong about the island at all. It’s an echo of the final lines of The Island of Doctor Death and Other Stories — a reminder that life frequently happens in spite of our best intentions, and that the shape of our lives tends towards archetypes which we find reflected in fiction and myth.