The Contradictions by Zulfikar Ghose (1966)

 This was Ghose's first published work of extended fiction. Two years earlier, in Statement Against Corpses, a shared volume with B. S. Johnson, he had published several brilliant short stories. This is a far more unsteady affair. It's the story of a couple, newly married, he for the second time and quite a bit older, and she for the first. It's set in the period immediately after the Second World War, and plays to Ghose's knowledge in the sense that Christopher is a civil servant who is sent to India; he and Sylvia attempt to discover that country together, and hear for the first time of the plan for independence while they are there. In the end, the discoveries Sylvia makes are more about herself and her relationship, though India's rich colours do affect her, as does the jockeying for position among the British 'elite'. Christopher is sent home after an indiscretion is magnified by an unscrupulous career-climber. Their relationship remains the focus in mid-forties England; they experience a drifting apart and a recognition of different aims. Sylvia is a little disappointed by Christopher seemingly dropping the intense connection and intellectual sympathy they once had; instead he worships mammon in the City. She prefers their house, and particularly its garden, in the country. Christopher's health has been revealed to be in question - their sexual life is very curtailed, and he experiences fainting fits: his heart is failing. Sylvia gets pregnant, but loses the baby. This series of lowerings culminates in Christopher's death in London while they are apart, not fully separated, but living independent lives. The psychology is the thing here - the book is intended as a revelation of minds: a portrait of the couple mainly based in the tones of how Sylvia thinks, her inner preoccupations - it has something of the spareness of novels like The Waves. And from that point of view, it's got something - this is the part of it which is most luminous. It has a rarefied atmosphere as a result, though - some of those preoccupations seem a little precious. It seems to have been Ghose's aim to simply be true to their middle class backgrounds - 'intellectual' conversation predominates, artful impressions are struck, the ordinaries of life are almost absent, as is any presence of the just concluded, all-enveloping conflagration of the war - which makes the novel feel like it's listing a bit, could sink. There are also some drops of fidelity in the writing, where banality is approached - dialogue and description feel a little flat and forced and formal. In the end, the brightness and intensity of the psychological picture help it survive, but all the same it's a partial success. Look forward to a more whole, consistent work amongst those that follow.