Warm-Blooded Murder

Banville’s ‘The Book of Evidence’ is a short novel written in a peculiar way: it’s a first-person account of a murder written by the murderer while in custody. The criminal then submits the document to the court as evidence. It is both a confession and an attempt at an explanation. The protagonist, Freddie Montgomery, is a well-off Irishman who almost inadvertently commits the crime (the murder of a stranger, a maid who interfered with Freddie's theft of a valuable painting) as part of a scheme to rescue himself and his family from financial difficulties.  Banville certainly makes the events seem possible; I’m sure that law enforcement around the world deals with crimes like this one every day.  Banville carefully explains (or has Freddie explain) every step of the way.  We come to know the events of that fateful day in excruciating detail.  We understand what led to those events. We understand what happened after the murder.  We understand these things because Banville explores Freddie’s feelings, observations, and motivations along every step of the way. The usual Banville sensibilities are on display here.  Even the most subtle emotional reverberations are up for examination.  Also lots of irony and a good bit of humor here and there.

But how probable is it that such a criminal have enough self-awareness to be able to produce such a document?  That’s where I have trouble with the book. Near the end of the book Banville takes a stab (oops) at explaining the moral deficiency which allowed the criminal to act as he did:

‘This is the worst, the essential sin, I think, the one for which there will be no forgiveness: that I never imagined her [the victim] vividly enough, that I never made her be there sufficiently, that I did not make her live. Yes, that failure of imagination is my real crime, the one that made the others possible. What I told that policeman is true – I killed her because I could kill her, and I could kill her because for me she was not alive. And so my task now is to bring her back to life. I am not sure what that means, but it strikes me with the force of an unavoidable imperative. How am I to make it come about, this act of parturition? Must I imagine her from the start, from infancy? I am puzzled, and not a little fearful, and yet there is something stirring in me, and I am strangely excited. I seem to have taken on a new weight and density. I feel gay and at the same time wonderfully serious. I am big with possibilities. I am living for two.’

Yes, it’s very poignant, insightful, even moving. But the same person whose limitations as a person led to murder is now, just a few weeks later, capable of this deep self-reflection? For most of the book Freddie is drifting through life, and seems not to be concerned with concepts like moral culpability. Indeed Freddie describes his thoughts and feelings at the moment of the killing as confesses that his real crime may be his tendency to let things drift:

‘There is no moment in this process of which I can confidently say, there, that is when I decided she should die. Decided? – I do not think it was a matter of deciding. I do not think it was a matter of thinking, even. That fat monster inside me just saw his chance and leaped out, frothing and flailing. He had scores to settle with the world, and she, at that moment, was world enough for him. I could not stop him. Or could I? He is me, after all, and I am he. But no, things were too far gone for stopping. Perhaps that is the essence of my crime, of my culpability, that I let things get to that stage, that I had not been vigilant enough, had not been enough of a dissembler, that I left Bunter to his own devices, and thus allowed him, fatally, to understand that he was free, that the cage door was open, that nothing was forbidden, that everything was possible.’

Is it possible to have such insight and such lack of control at the same moment? If you can understand what's happening, would you just let it happen?  Banville writes in the first person, but with the insight and detachment of a third-person narrator.  I would venture to guess that most murderers are so screwed up emotionally (or just plain emotionally deficient) that they will never have the insights that Banville describes so beautifully, or if they do, it would take years and years of therapy to get there.

Contrast Banville’s approach with ‘In Cold Blood’, for example, where the criminals’ utter lack of perspective or feeling about what they’re doing is both stunning and chilling and of course part of the point.  It’s more believable, perhaps, but also more depressing.  For such a person there is little hope. Freddie is well on his way to some kind of redemption at the end of the book.  That may not be credible, but it is comforting.

Banville also writes crime fiction under the name Benjamin Black.  Never read any.  Will have to try one soon.

All that being said there is much good writing here, and lots of insight into how we can be led (or lead ourselves) to actions that we will later regret.  I don’t think it’s Banville’s best book, but it’s a courageous experiment and a short and easy read.