The Slaves of Solitude

My stepfather, having done the unenviable task of reading all my literary reviews in one go (everyone else in my immediate family having managed to keep up to date, although possibly out of politeness rather than desire), has pointed out that I talk rather a lot about how long it’s taken me to read a particular novel. I would like to say, in my defence, that the speed or slowness with which I peruse a work of literature is often a good indicator as to how much I enjoyed it – but nevertheless, I will cease this somewhat unliterary gauge of excellence and try and rely solely on the content.

Patrick Hamilton is one of those authors that contemporary authors and clever people bemoan as being forgotten or underappreciated. I don’t know if I’m being very uncultured in saying that I hadn’t heard of him until a few months back, but he’s not exactly a household name. But, as Doris Lessing furiously asserts in the introduction in my copy, he deserves to be. I have come to agree wholeheartedly. The Slaves of Solitude is a bleak but unabashedly humorous (in a wry sort of way) novel, written between 1943 and 1946, and set in the war years. Although there is no description of battlefield action, and no bombs are dropped in the duration of the novel, the war pervades every page and seems to taint the action and characters with lethargy and bitterness.

The novel takes place in the small fictional town of Thames Lockdon, in a boarding house, The Rosamund Tea Rooms. The main character is Miss Roach, a pleasant, ordinary sort of woman, approaching middle age. Also living at the Tea Rooms are a couple of elderly women, the abrasive and bullying Mr. Thwaites, and a more ‘common’ man, who spends very little time there. Everything seems bland and dull; one has the impression that there are identical boarding houses, with identical occupants all over the country, all with the same stagnant atmosphere. Hamilton manages to convey the oppressive atmosphere beautifully, representing perfectly, with an acute but never cruel eye, the pettiness and banality of the characters. Things are shaken up a bit with the arrival of an American lieutenant, and further still when Miss Roach’s German friend, Vicki, moves into the boarding house, and the main storyline is wrapped around these two events.

Hamilton’s use of language is both damning of the British social pattern, and hideously amusing. I found myself laughing aloud at Mr. Thawaites’ grotesque attempts to talk eloquently – it all seemed so surreal, almost Pinteresque, yet so horribly imaginable. Similarly, Miss Roach’s indignant internal monologues seem so very real that they are both alarming and funny. The main storyline (a feud between the very English Miss Roach and the dangerously continental and loathsomely seductive Vicki) is at once ridiculous if the much more serious background of the war is taken into account, but Hamilton gives it a sense of vast importance, and deals with the fraught emotions of Miss Roach gently and sensitively.

As ever, I am reluctant to give away important plot details, so I will restrain myself. It’s odd, actually, in that there isn’t that much plot to speak of – the true beauty of this novel is that Hamilton’s genius shines through his exquisitely careful use of language, designed to be read in seriousness, yet able to evoke strange feelings of pity, amusement and disdain. His characters are crafted with the utmost care, and one sympathises deeply with Miss Roach, and wonders where the gradual crescendo of quiet events in the deathlike boarding house will take her.

Overall, therefore, an immensely satisfying read. I hope this review portrays a little of Hamilton’s extreme skill at minutely portraying human character – and that you have noted that not once have I said how long this book has taken me to finish...