Mister B. Gone
by Clive Barker
Harper, 2007; 248pp
ISBN: 978-0-06-018298-4
marbled end papers, faux aged pages
A demon trapped in its pages begs the reader to burn this book even as he entices, teases, and taunts the reader to read further by offering increasingly interesting and complex glimpses of his life. As he tells the tale of how he was trapped in the book, Jakabok Botch proves a captivating voice in the same league, perhaps, as Scheherazade. Instead of 1001, Botch’s story focuses on one particular night, when he learned a great secret and lost his freedom in one complex sequence of loss, love, betrayal, and loyalty.
Barker’s prose is by turns smooth as a lover’s hidden flesh and harsh as a decapitation, an immolation, a rending. Wonders vie with horrors and the fantasy here is decanted entirely from the darker distillations of Barker’s considerable imagination. Sip or gulp, the reader will be intoxicated.
From his childhood in the ninth circle of Hell to his escape from abuse and his capture by fishers all too human, the minor demon called Mister B. by his significant friend Quitoon rushes headlong from one adventure to the next catastrophe as inevitably as any Hollywood serial star. Between episodes he pleads, cajoles, and threatens, begging for flame even as he reveals a fascinating and convoluted soul of his own.
It is a soul the Biblical Job might recognize in grotesque, and it reminded this reader of the inverse of Mark Ferrari’s protagonist in his recent debut, The Book of Joby. It is a soul we have also spotted flitting through the pages of Neil Gaiman’s American Gods; Prince Ombra by Roderick MacLeish; and Little, Big by John Crowley — and in many other recent books. It is as if a battle to reclaim our myths from modern, cynical usurpers has become a war on many fronts, and if the books continue to display the quality of those I’ve read, imagination shall prevail.
Making his way through our past’s many atrocities — in fact, prompting quite a few of them — the possessor of this book’s voice learns from the older, better-bred demon Quitoon about unrequited love and the silence shouted in response to every prayer. Though mostly light as a spiderweb’s stroke, the book’s tone carries an underlying maturity of outlook resonating with the weight of its writer’s many scars.
Mister B. Gone is beautifully presented. The dust jacket resembles worn, torn leather, while the pages are yellowed, faintly stained, and aged-looking. The typeset gives the impression of older printing methods, and the marbled endpapers remind us of cinnamon scented attic treasures cherished by generations past. Appearance, feel, and narrative combine to create a work of physical as well as storytelling art, and it enhances the reading experience. Harper is to be congratulated for going this extra step in publishing. It is added value justifying today’s high cost for books.
I read Mister B. Gone in two mesmerized sittings and carry now its delicious taint as I look anew at the printed word, its joys and sorrows, and the endless influences, good and bad, books have had on all of us. What an entertainment, and what a serious tour de force in popular form.
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