Unless there are redeeming features (such as humour or splendid characters), I tend to find stories of horror and sentimentality redundant and typically distasteful. They foist on us cheap, shallow emotion that disturbs while teaching us nothing. The Kite Runner is light on the horror, but makes one insistent tug on the heart strings after another.
 
Once Amir the boy and his particular unpleasantness were left behind and he was grown up and in courting in the USA, I managed to warm to him briefly, but not to the book.
 
I hadn’t bargained for all the lachrymose parallels and coincidences: the tragic family deaths, the return of Aseef, the sexual assaults, the split lips, the noble generosities, the motherless sons, the fated return of the bloody kite.
 
By the time I reached the end, the corny inevitability of what was going to happen was unbearable.

Milton Pitt is something of a worrier. The reader, naturally siding with the protagonist, will very soon start to worry about him, also.
 
At the age of twenty-six, when one really should be bright and brimming with energy, discovering the world and exercising talents, Milton is just hopeless, lost and alone. He lives in the inspirational setting of Oxford, yet cut off from it, semi-broke, girlfriendless and apparently friendless. It reminded me of the time I spent on the dole, in existential angst and a mildewed bedsit, down the same Cowley Road.
 
Something has to give. And so Edward Vass goes about getting seriously inventive to give his protagonist the chance of another kind of experience altogether. Only it won’t be an easy ride.
 
Meaninglessness dogs Milton from a tedious office job by day to getting drunk at night. On top of all this, he’s a Spurs fan. He really doesn’t seem to have much going for him. Could it, you might reasonably wonder, get any worse? Well, stand by, because you’re about to find out. If you thought life was hard-going, you ain’t seen nothing yet.
 
Because there’s the crux of it. Milton wakes up in his room and discovers every reason to believe he has died. Only it isn’t anything like what you might expect, and so much so that he has to remind himself: “I’m not mad — just dead.” Edward Vass lets imaginative possibilities lead where they will. He clearly roots for his hapless hero, but suffice it to say that the helter-skelter after-life—or is it a dream?—can get somewhat gory as well as bewildering. That’s life — only it isn’t.
 
I liked the butterfly of Milton’s experience (you can see it on the front cover). It brought to mind Zhuangzi, who on waking from dreaming of being a butterfly, did not now know if he wasn’t a butterfly dreaming of being a man.
 
Present tense narratives tend to keep you guessing, and this appropriately matches our protagonist’s confusion in his plight, expressed with the jocular, self-deprecating defensiveness of a young Englishman. A new surprise awaits Milton Pitt around each corner, until a neat resolution that you will have to discover for yourselves.

Click hWhile we’re on the subject of 18th century seafaring and mutinies, here’s the private record of the boatswain’s mate on no less than The Bounty.
 
Another voyage that was confounded by Cape Horn, only this time the ship’s commander, Lt. Bligh, did not insist on making it through the treacherous Strait of Le Maire and turned back to sail for the Cape of Good Hope and warmer climes, although Bligh’s treatment of the crew would then provoke another kind of treachery.
 
The manuscript, beginning with the Bounty setting off from Deptford in 1787, has its own story.
 
Well-read recreations of the events made reference to the journal, in particular that of Lady Belcher, stepdaughter of a shipmate of Morrison’s, both of whom were sentenced to death for their part in the mutiny, but later pardoned.
 
The original manuscript was finally tracked down many years later by a certain Owen Rutter, who was tipped off that it was to be found in a special section of the Public Library of New South Wales in Australia, to which it had been bequeathed by a Reverend A. G. K. L’Estrange. (Of course. How could it be otherwise? I half expected Sherlock Holmes to appear and play a part in this true tale.)
 
The Trustees of the Library permitted Rutter to publish the faithfully edited and unexpurgated MS in book form, as long as it was (don’t ask me why) put out by Golden Cockerel Press. In 1935, coinciding by chance with the first ever movie of the story with Charles Laughton and Clark Gable, it printed a limited edition of 325 copies “on Van Gelder paper”, of which mine is number 235. I picked it up in a second-hand store ages ago and promptly forgot about it until now.

The journal falls into two parts. The first, which covers the voyage and the mutiny itself, was severely “worked over” by Lady Belcher where it offended her sensibilities and this publication has restored the vivid style of the authentic original. Whereas Lady B. declared that at Annamooka Lieutenant Bligh used “some very strong language” with the mutineers’ ringleader, Fletcher Christian, Rutter gives us Morrison’s true record of the conversation word for word, and we learn that Bligh damned Christian as a “cowardly rascal”.
 
We learn of Bligh’s temper and greed. He detained and ill-treated native Chiefs and claimed all the hogs brought on board by the crew “and everything else was his, as soon as it was aboard, and that he would take nine tenths of any man’s property and let him see who dared say any thing to the contrary.” The authority of a ship’s commander cannot be underestimated. He had the power of life or death over every man under him.
 
The last straw, which produced the seizing of the ship, was a wrangle over coconuts, which Bligh accused his officers of stealing. Said his first officer, Mr Fletcher: ’I do not know, Sir, but I hope you dont think me to be so mean as to be Guilty of Stealing yours!’ Mr. Bligh replied “Yes you damd hound I do— you must have stolen them from me or you could give a better account of them—God dam you, you Scoundrels, you are all thieves alike, and combine with the men to rob me—I suppose you’ll Steal my Yams next, but I’ll sweat you for it, you rascals, I’ll make half of you Jump overboard before you get through Endeavour Streights.’” Upon which, he had the officers’ grog ration stopped.
 
On taking over the Bounty and casting Bligh adrift, Fletcher Christian, who would complain of being “used like a dog” by Bligh throughout the voyage, behaved quite honourably, giving the pleading Bligh his Navy Commission and more importantly, his own sextant and plenty of provisions, the carpenter’s tool chest and a new sail for the nineteen men in the castaway boat. Fletcher had, it turns out, intended to abandon the ship on his own the night of the insurrection, but was persuaded by others on board that he would have support enough for what would be a bloodless coup. Morrison played his own hand cannily, remaining on the fringe of events—and remaining on the Bounty.
 
These events are fairly well-known. The second part of the journal, however, had never been published before. It is more intriguing to my mind than the mutiny, relating at length and in detail the people and customs of Tahiti. I will relate and quote from it.

Of Morrison himself we know little, other than of being of slender build, sallow complexion and long dark hair, and that he was properly prepared as a Navy seaman and gunner. A 1779 Admiralty examination for a gunner’s certificate states: “He knows how to Charge, & Discharge a piece of Ordnance, readily an artist-like, and how to sponge the same, and to Muzzle, and secure it in bad weather.” We also discover that boatswain’s mate was, as Rutter notes in admiration, “a born writer”.
 
Until his party was discovered, apprehended and transported back to England for court martial, Morrison lived on Tahiti and described at length in his journal the people and their appearance, society and customs, their buildings, canoes, food, dress, dances, disputes, wars, beliefs and religious practices; also the island itself, its vegetation and animal life.
 
I personally found it fascinating to read this first-hand account. How the behaviour of the natives could fluctuate between friendly and vicious, being suitably pragmatic when it came to trading hogs and other supplies for iron. How a child was considered sacred and head of the family. How “Men wear their Hair and beards in different forms as they please, and the Young Weomen wear their hair Long flowing in ringlets to their Waist and dress it with the White leaves of the Fwharra or Palm like ribbands and Oderiferous Flowers. They also make necklaces of the Seeds of the ripe palm apple & flowers Elegantly disposed; which not only sets their persons off to advantage but afford a Continual Nosegay to themselves and all who sit near them”.
 
“Both sexes want a part if not the whole of their little fingers, which we understood was cut off as a tribute to the memory of their deceased friends.”
 
There’s plenty more: on the use of kava, which he calls “Yava, or intoxicating peper”, on stowaways, ceremonies, skirmishes, and of the gay Mahoo.
 
Of the people of the island of Tubuai, where Morrison also spent some time, he makes this rather refreshing observation:
 
“They have no Marriage Ceremony, but Join and live as Man and Wife while they agree; nor is virtue deemd of any consequence among them. While they agree they live on the Estate of either, & if they part after having Children, the Man takes the boys and the Woman the Girls, & each retire to their own Estate, the Children being No Obstacle being no hindrance to their getting other partners.”
 
A reproduction of the text can be read online, but there’s nothing quite like the feel of these pages in your fingers.