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  • Written by Pat Barker
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  • Life Class
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Written by Pat BarkerAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Pat Barker

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On Sale: January 06, 2009
Pages: | ISBN: 978-0-307-47244-1
Published by : Anchor Knopf
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Synopsis|Excerpt

Synopsis

In the spring of 1914, a group of students at the Slade School of Art have gathered for a life-drawing class. Paul Tarrant is easily distracted by an intriguing fellow student, Elinor Brooke, but watches from afar when a well-known painter catches her eye. After World War I begins, Paul tends to the dying soldiers from the front line as a Belgian Red Cross volunteer, but the longer he remains, the greater the distance between him and home becomes. By the time he returns, Paul must confront not only the overwhelming, perhaps impossible challenge of how to express all that he has seen and experienced, but also the fact that life, and love, will never be the same for him again.

Excerpt

1


They’d been drawing for over half an hour. There was no sound except for the slurring of pencils on Michelet paper or the barely perceptible squeak of charcoal. At the center of the circle of students, close to the dais, a stove cast a barred red light onto the floor. The smell of burning coke mingled with other smells: sweat, hot cloth, cigar and tobacco smoke. Now and again you could hear the soft pop of lips inhaling and another plume of blue smoke would rise to join the pall that hung over the whole room.

Nobody spoke. You were not allowed to talk in the life class. In the Antiques Room, where they spent the mornings copying from casts of Classical and Renaissance sculpture, talking was permitted, and the students—a few of the women, in particular—chattered nonstop. Here, apart from the naked woman on the dais, the atmosphere was not unlike a men’s club. The women students had their own separate life class somewhere on the lower floor. Even the Slade, scandalously modern in most respects, segregated the sexes when the naked human body was on display.

Paul Tarrant, sitting on the back row, as far away from the stove as he could get, coughed discreetly into his handkerchief. He was still struggling to throw off the bronchitis that had plagued him all winter and the fumes irritated his lungs. He’d finished his drawing, or at least he’d reached the point where he knew that further work would only make matters worse. He leaned back and contemplated the page. Not one of his better efforts.

He knew, without turning to look, that Professor Tonks had entered the room. It was always like this with Tonks, the quiet entry. He seemed to insinuate himself into the room. You knew he’d arrived only when you saw the students sitting opposite straighten their shoulders or bend more anxiously over their drawings. Tonks was a dark planet whose presence could be deduced only by a deviation in the orbit of other bodies.

Paul risked a sidelong glance. Tonks, bent at the shoulders like a butcher’s hook, was scrutinizing a student’s drawing. He said something, too low to be heard. The student mumbled a reply and Tonks moved on. Another student, then another. He was working his way along the back row, passing quickly from drawing to drawing. Sugden brought him to a halt. Sugden was hopeless, among the worst in the class. Tonks always spent more time on the weaker students, which indicated a kindly disposition, perhaps, or would have done had he not left so many of them in tatters.

So far his progress had been quiet, but now suddenly he raised his voice.

“For God’s sake, man, look at that arm. It’s got no more bones in it than a sausage. Your pencil’s blunt, your easel’s wobbly, you’re working in your own light, and you seem to have no grasp of human anatomy at all. What is the point?”

Many of Tonks’s strictures related to the students’ ignorance of anatomy. “Is it a blancmange?” had been one of his comments on Paul’s early efforts. Tonks had trained as a surgeon and taught anatomy to medical students before Professor Browne invited him to join the staff at the Slade. His eye, honed in the dissecting room and the theater, detected every failure to convey what lay beneath the skin. “Look for the line,” he would say again and again. “Drawing is an explication of the form.” It was one of the catchphrases Slade students sometimes chanted to each other. Along with: “I thy God am a jealous God. Thou shalt have none other Tonks but me.”

There was no getting round Tonks’s opinion of your work. Tonks was the Slade.

Paul looked at his drawing. If he’d been dissatisfied before he was dismayed now. As Tonks drew closer, his drawing became mysteriously weaker. Not only had he failed to “explicate the form,” but he’d also tried to cover up the failure with all the techniques he’d learned before coming to the Slade: shading, cross–hatching, variations in tone, even, now and then, a little discreet smudging of the line. In the process, he’d produced the kind of drawing that at school—and even, later, in night classes—had evoked oohs and ahs of admiration. Once, not so long ago, he’d have been pleased with this work; now, he saw its deficiencies only too clearly. Not only was the drawing bad, it was bad in exactly the way Tonks most despised. More than just a failure, it was a dishonest failure.

He took a deep breath. A second later Tonks’s shadow fell across the page, though he immediately moved a little to one side so that the full awfulness could be revealed. A long pause. Then he said conversationally, as if he were really interested in the answer, “Is that really the best you can do?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do it?”

Why indeed? Paul made no reply and after a moment Tonks moved on. At last, from somewhere, a rush of anger. “If I knew how to draw I wouldn’t need to be here at all, would I?”

He’d shouted, though he hadn’t meant to. All around people were turning to stare at him. Without giving Tonks a chance to reply, he threw down his pencil and walked out.

The corridor, empty between classes, stretched ahead of him. Its walls seemed to throb with his anger. The heat of it kept him going all the way to the main entrance and out into the quad. There he stopped and looked around him. What was he doing, storming out like that in the middle of a session? It was asking for trouble. And yet he knew he couldn’t go back. Students were sitting in small circles on the grass, laughing and talking, but they were mainly medical students enjoying a break between lectures, and there was nobody he knew. He threaded his way between the groups and out through the iron gates into Gower Street. At first he started to walk towards Russell Square, the nearest green space, but that wasn’t far enough. He needed to get right away, to think about his future in unfamiliar surroundings, because although, in one sense, his spat with Tonks had been relatively trivial, he felt that it marked a crisis in his career.

If you could call it a career.

*

He’d been walking round and round the lake for over an hour. His shadow, hardly visible when he first entered the park, now trotted at his heels like a stunted child. Round and round the problem went: no talent, wasting my time, better leave now and get a job. Or would it be more sensible to wait till the end of the year? He’d always intended to spend two years at the Slade and it seemed a bit feeble to leave before the first year was over, but then what was the point of continuing when his work not only failed to improve but actually seemed to deteriorate from week to week? It wasn’t as if he had unlimited money. He had a legacy from his grandmother, a slum landlord of quite astonishing rapacity who, by skimping on repairs and bringing up her large family on bread and scrape, had salted away a great deal of money in the box under her bed. What would her advice have been?

Have nowt to do with nancy–boy stuff like art, there’s no money in that, and if you’ve got tangled up in it, lad, get out as fast as you can.

She’d been horrified when he went to work as an orderly in a hospital; real men earned their living by their own sweat and blood.

This was getting him nowhere. He found a bench and sat down, feeling the heat heavy on his shoulder blades. Craning his neck, he looked up at the tops of the trees, dark against the pulsing sun. Everything was flooded in lemony light. After a while he straightened up and looked about him, and it was then that he became aware of the girl on the other side of the lake.

A young girl, still with the childish blondeness that rarely survives into adult life, was wandering along the waterside. She was about fifteen, dressed in the shabby, respectable clothes of a maid, her only ornament a bunch of purple velvet violets pinned to the crown of her black straw hat. Sent into service, he guessed, away from her own overcrowded home. Girls that age are not easily accommodated in two–bedroomed houses, parents needing privacy, adolescent brothers curious, younger children sleeping four to a bed. This would be her afternoon off.

He tracked her with his eyes. A few paces further on she stopped, standing at the water’s edge looking down into the depths. Thinking they were going to be fed, swans, geese, and ducks set off towards her from all parts of the lake, so that the slim, gray figure quickly became the focal point of thirty or more converging lines. There was something odd about her and at first he couldn’t think what it was, but then he noticed that the buttons on her blouse had been done up in the wrong sequence. There was a glimpse of what might have been bare flesh between the edge of her blouse and her skirt. He kept expecting her to pull her shawl more closely round her or turn away and put herself to rights. But she did neither. Instead she stumbled a few feet further along, then stopped again, the shadows of rippling water playing over her face and neck.

She was swaying on her feet. At first he thought nothing of it, but then it happened again, and again. It came to him in a flash. Incredibly, this fresh–faced, innocent–looking girl was drunk. He looked up and down the path to see if she was alone and there, about twenty yards behind, stood a portly, middle–aged man watching her. Ah, authority. Probably the man was her employer—he was too well–dressed to be her father—but then, if he had a legitimate reason to be interested in her, why did he not approach and take control of the situation? Instead of strolling along at that loitering, predatory pace, his eyes fixed on her back. No, he was nothing to do with her—unless of course he was the man responsible for her condition. That, or he’d noticed the state she was in and recognized easy pickings when he saw them.

Bastard. All Paul’s long frustration in the life class—a frustration which could never be vented on Professor Tonks because he respected the man too much—boiled over into hatred of this man with his florid cheeks and his expensive suit and his silver–topped cane. He jumped up and began striding along the path, meaning to cut them off before they reached the gate.

The sun, past its height, had begun to throw long bluish shadows across the grass. Paul’s heels rang out on the pavement as he half walked, half ran round the head of the lake. He felt vigorous, clear. All the disappointments and complexities of the past few months had dropped away. He drew level with the girl, who had once more paused and was gazing out over the lake. A few yards away from her the geese were beginning to come ashore. Big, webbed yellow feet made puddles of wet on the dusty path as they lurched towards her, open beaks hissing. Startled, she took off her shawl and flapped it at them until at last, honking and hissing, they flopped, one by one, into the water again.

Now that Paul was closer he could see that her hair had slipped loose from the pins at the nape of her neck and straggled down her back. The blouse was badly torn, it must have been ripped off her back. Looking down, he saw that only one foot had a stocking on; the other was thrust bare into a down–at–heel shoe. He looked at the slim, naked ankle and felt a tweak of lust that hardly broke the surface of his consciousness before it was transmuted into anger. Who had done this to her? She was such a child. He was afraid to startle her by speaking to her and, anyway, she might well misconstrue his intentions.

The middle–aged man had stopped a few yards away and was gazing at him with obvious resentment. Paul turned to stare at him. Medium height, heavily built, bulky about the shoulders and chest, but a lot of that was flab. His trouser buttons strained to accommodate his postprandial belly. His eyes kept sliding away from Paul to the girl and back again. At last he stepped to one side, ostentatiously allowing Paul plenty of room to pass. Paul held his ground.

Meanwhile, the girl tried to move on, but staggered and almost fell. She seemed disorientated now and after standing for a moment simply flopped down on the path. With a glance at Paul the man moved towards her. Paul stepped forward to cut him off.

“What do you want?” the man said.

A Yorkshire accent? “Are you responsible for this?”

“What?”

“This.”

“I never saw her before in my life.” Grayish–green eyes, the color of infected phlegm. “I was going to put her in a cab and send her back to her family.”

“ ’Course you were.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“We could take her to the police station.”

“Oh, I doubt if she’d thank you for that.”

“Let’s ask her, shall we?”

The man leaned forward in a fug of port–wine breath. “Look, piss off, will you? I saw her first.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“It’s not your business.” A hiss the geese would have been proud of. “For God’s sake, look at her. Don’t you think you’re closing the stable door after the horse’s bolted?”

“And a slice off a cut cake won’t be missed. What a fund of homely northern wisdom you are.”

Gooseberry–green eyes swelled to bursting. A purpling of pendulous cheeks, then Paul caught a flash of silver from the upraised cane. He raised his arm to break the blow and pain jolted from his forearm into his shoulder. Now he had his excuse, his legitimate reason. He twisted the cane out of the other’s hand and brought it crashing down onto his shoulders, once, twice, three times, and then he lost count. There was no reason ever to stop, he’d never felt such joy, strength seemed to flow into him from the sky. But a minute later, as the man turned away, presenting only his bowed shoulders to the blows, Paul started to recover himself. In a final burst of exhilaration, he sent the cane whirling in a broad arc over the lake, its silver knob flashing in the sun.

“Fetch!” he shouted, feeling his spit fly. “Go on, boy, fetch!”

The cane plopped and sank. Concentric rings of ripples laced with foam spread out over the surface of the water. Its owner turned to face Paul, goosegog eyes red veined with rage. “Do you know how much that cost?”

“More than the girl, I’ll bet.”


From the Hardcover edition.
Pat Barker|Author Q&A

About Pat Barker

Pat Barker - Life Class

Photo © Ellen Warner

Pat Barker is the author of eleven previous novels, most recently Life Class, as well as the highly acclaimed Regeneration Trilogy: Regeneration; The Eye in the Door, winner of the Guardian Fiction Prize; and The Ghost Road, winner of the Booker Prize. She lives in the north of England.

Author Q&A

1. With Life Class, you've returned to the World War I setting of your Regeneration trilogy. What is it about the Great War that you find so compelling? Why do you think readers are still interested in one of the last century’s many great conflicts?

The Great War was the first time most people were made aware of the terrible effects of  modern weapons on fragile human bodies. The shock of this still lingers.

It’s war as a human experience that I find compelling. All wars are different but they are also alike. It’s the inhumanity of man to man that interests me along with all the attempts by organizations such as the Red Cross and Red Crescent to lessen its impact on the most vulnerable.

I would expect readers to go on being interested in the conflicts of the last century because we know more about them than we do about contemporary conflicts which are obscured by propaganda and disinformation and this enables us two think about the dilemmas of conflict more clearly.


2. As you did in Regeneration, you've incorporated some reallife characters into Life Class. Can you tell us something about Slade professor Henry Tonks and his role in your novel? About Lady Caroline? What’s the dramatic or strategic rationale for interweaving fact and fiction? And, if you're willing to tell us, are some of the main characters based on historical figures (is, for example, Elinor Brooke based on Dora Carrington)?

Henry Tonks was a practicing artist—as all Slade teachers had to be—and agood one, but his real genius was for teaching. He began life as a surgeon, teaching anatomy to medical students, but abandoned that career when he was offered a post at the Slade. He taught almost every distinguished British artist in the years after1880, though he didn't always approve of their subsequent development. “What a brood I have reared!” he said.

During the war years he worked as medical artists at a hospital for facial injuries and while there drew a remarkable series of portraits of disfigured young men which he refused to have exhibited on the grounds that they were too distressing. They are very remarkable, combining as they do a great sensitivity to the personality of the sitter with an unflinching depiction of the wound.

Lady Ottolone Morrel was a great patron of the arts and friend of impoverished artists and writers, some of whom pilloried her many eccentricities in their work.

Some of my other characters have real people as their starting points but they also differ from them in many ways and their lives quickly diverge from the originals.

I try to be accurate in my depiction of characters who are called by their own names, but the others are fiction and I invent freely.

I use real people because it sometimes seems that inventing a character to fill the role of real historical figure is rather futile. Henry Tonks was the Slade, and his high standards and exacting eye are fixed reference points around which the fictional characters revolve.


3. Your heroine Elinor Brooke seems particularly determined not to let the War interfere with her pursuit of her art. What is the role of art in the face of the collective trauma that is war? Frankly, I was surprised that there would be any female students at the Slade in that era; how unusual would Elinor have been?

Elinor wasn’t unusual. The majority of Slade students were female. They received the same tuition as the men though life classes were segregated. Some upper class girls used a year as the Slade as part of their finishing or to pass time till the right man came along. Others, like Elinor, took their art very seriously indeed.

The previous generation of Slade students also contained many talented women artists,. most notably Gwen John, Augustus John's sister who went to the Slade in 1895.

As to the role of the arts in wartime—that’s a huge question. Some of oinks pupils’s became official war artists and there's no doubt the Government’s motive was to mobilize the arts behind the war effort. But many of the paintings move far beyond propaganda which is why we continue to value them today.

I find Elinor’s resolute refusal to accept the war as a possible subject for art interesting. It sounds trivial and selfish at first but I think it’s got something to recommend it.  It’s rather like WB Yeats refusal to regard trench warfare as a suitable subject for poetry on the grounds that it involved merely passive suffering. It also has echoes of Virginia’s Wolf’s concept of war as a purely masculine activity from which women should turn away.


4. Both your male protagonists, Paul Tarrant and Kit Neville, work with the wounded in Belgium; they aren't soldiers, though they certainly experience the horrors of trench warfare. But why don't you situate them right in the thick of battle as combatants?

I wanted Life Class to hinge on a stark contrast between the pre–war life of art students at the Slade and the opening weeks and months of the war. But men who volunteered for the army in August 1914 didn’t arrive in France until spring 1915 at the earliest because they had to train first. The soldiers fighting in 1914 were professionals. The only way I could get Paul and Kit out to France almost immediately was to have them volunteer to work as orderlies and drive ambulances where they were caught up in the chaos and virtual breakdown of the medical services which were trying to cope with a far higher level of casualties than anybody had foreseen. Paradoxically, although not soldiers when they return to London in early 1915 they are the only people in their circle to have any actual experience of the war.


5. Im struck by the fact that your fictional worlds are largely dominated by big eventsWorld War I, murder, 9/11 and the war in Afghanistanwhich sets your work apart in today's literary landscape. Most current fiction seems to be more introspective, even egocentric. Do you view contemporary fiction in a similar way? Do you have a sense about why so many serious writers today are focusing more on the self and less on the events that shape society as well as the self?

I agree that much contemporary fiction is egocentric and introspective, partly perhaps because individual writers typically do not have a sense of connection to major events which they usually experience as passive observers via the television. This is in marked contrast to the two world wars which made demands on individuals which transformed their lives. 

Contemporary writers who have been born in one society and either voluntarily or as refugees have been transplanted to a different culture find it easier to link their individual experience to a world wide trend of mass migration and dislocation. It’s no accident that much of the strongest contemporary writing deals with themes of uprooting and transformation.

You’ve obviously done plenty of research on the experience of World War I, for those in the action and those in England. Do you ever wonder why there wasn’t some kind of mass mutiny or widespread rebellion? It all seems so unbelievably dire—so callously cruel—that it’s sometimes hard to believe that people kept on for all those years.

There were some mutinies and rebellions. The British and French armies both had mutinies, though not on a large scale—and Russia’s involvement ended in revolution. 

But in wartime people close ranks. A war needs to drag on for some considerable time before the voices questioning its purpose make themselves heard.


7. Are you working on a new book yet? Are you staying in the historical mode or moving back to a more contemporary setting?
I’ve started work on my next book which will remain in the First World War period and contain some of the same characters as Life Class. It’s set partly in a hospital which specialized in plastic surgery and also employed artists who worked alongside surgeons in the operating theatre—most notably Henry Tonks.

I’m fascinated by the interface between the arts and medicine. There are many contemporary initiatives exploring the role of the arts in healing and in preparing  medical students for the emotionally testing aspects of their work, but the interface has never been closer than it was in that hospital in 1917.


From the Hardcover edition.

Praise

Praise

“Beautiful and evocative . . . a coming-of-age story that transcends the individual and gestures to the fate of a generation.” —PeopleLife Class possesses organic power and narrative sweep. . . . Barker conjures up the hellish terrors of the war and its fallout with meticulous precision.” —Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times“Here, as in her best fiction, Barker unveils psychologically rich characters. . . and resists the trappings of a neat love story, reminding us once again that in art and life we remain infinitely mysterious.” —San Francisco Chronicle“A book so alive from page to page that it's difficult to put down.” —Seattle Times
Reader's Guide|About the Book|Author Biography|Discussion Questions|Suggestions

About the Book

“Beautiful and evocative. . . . A coming-of-age story that transcends the individual and gestures to the fate of a generation.” —People

The introduction, questions, and suggestions for further reading that follow are designed to stimulate your group's discussion of Pat Barker's mesmerizing novel, Life Class.

About the Guide

A haunting tribute to the experience of poet Siegfried Sassoon and others during the Great War, Pat Barker's Regeneration Trilogy established her as one of the foremost fiction writers of our time, culminating in The Ghost Road, the Booker Prize-winning novel hailed by the New York Times as a masterwork. Now she returns to the battlefields of World War I in a dramatic portrait of aspiring artists who inhabited prewar London before being forced to confront the brutal realities of combat on the Continent. At once a love story and a meditation on the morality of art in a time of calamity, Life Class evokes a world where heart and soul cannot be reconciled by physical survival alone.

About the Author

Pat Barker is the author of the highly acclaimed Regeneration trilogy: Regeneration; The Eye in the Door, winner of the Guardian Fiction Prize; and The Ghost Road, winner of the Booker Prize; as well as seven other novels. She lives in England.

Discussion Guides

1. What do the novel's opening scenes at the Slade evoke? What motivations collide (and coincide) among the students, Tonks, and the model?

2. How did your perception of Paul evolve throughout Life Class? How does his temperament differ from Kit's?

3. Discuss the varying quests presented by the novel's lovers. What are Paul, Kit, Elinor, and Teresa seeking in the initial chapters? How do their notions of fulfillment speak to the version of early twentieth-century London that is presented in Life Class?

4. Did you believe Teresa's statements about Halliday, or were you as skeptical as Paul? Is there any way she could have escaped her painful past?

5. What changes when the novel's point of view shifts to Elinor's in chapter twelve? What are the greatest contrasts between the way she sees the world and the way she sees her place in it?

6. How would you characterize Elinor's relationship with her parents? How do they respond to her defiant acts, such as the cutting of her hair? To what degree is she shaped by her siblings' lives?

7. On their bicycle ride through the cemetery (chapter twelve), Elinor wonders about the “real” relationships that existed behind the artificial lives of those buried there. In the same scene, Kit thinks to himself that Paul is mistaken about seeing the “real” England. Where do the boundaries of real life and façade lie for these three characters? Do they use art as a means for capturing or defying reality?

8. How is sexuality used throughout the novel? Where does the body intersect with an emotional world as Life Class progresses? What did Elinor's virginity signify to her? How does the memory of Paul's mother affect his ability to form relationships?

9. What remains unspoken in Paul and Elinor's letters? What versions of themselves are they able portray on paper? What has been lost and gained by the use of e-mail between couples separated by warfare?

10. How is the characters' art described in the aftermath of Ypres? How do their images reflect the literary images created by Pat Barker's words?

11. What is Tonks attempting to teach his students? To what extent can an artist be taught?

12. How were you affected by the novel's acknowledgments section, which describes the real-life Henry Tonks and the tandem between life drawings in medical modes and for art's sake? What does fiction lend to the process of understanding significant chapters in history? What can novelists achieve that journalists can't, in terms of evoking history?

13. Discuss the novel's title. How does the notion of class as an aspect of social hierarchy apply to the characters? In terms of a class designed for instruction, what did Paul, Elinor, and Kit learn about the nature of life? How were they tested over their “lessons”? What are some of the most significant life classes you have endured?

14. Which historical aspects of Life Class were most surprising to you? How did you react to the concept of a drawing class segregated by gender, or the fact that divorce criteria differed between husbands and wives? Had you been aware of the internment of Germans in Great Britain, exemplified in Catherine Stein's story?

15. What emotional threads are woven throughout the Regeneration Trilogy and Life Class? In terms of power or essence, does the response of a visual artist differ from that of a poet in the face of wartime atrocity?

Suggested Readings

Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin; Russell Banks, The Reserve; Pat Barker, Regeneration, The Eye in the Door, The Ghost Road; Geraldine Brooks, People of the Book; Geoff Dyer, The Missing of the Somme; Anne Enright, The Gathering; Sebastian Faulks, Birdsong; Ford Madox Ford, Parade's End; Alan Furst, The Spies of Warsaw; Robert Graves, Good-bye to All That; Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms; Valerie Martin, Trespass; Sue Miller, The Senator's Wife; Michael Ondaatje, Divisadero; Joseph O'Neill, Netherland; Wilfred Owen, The Collected Poems of Wilfred Owen; Per Petterson, Out Stealing Horses; Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front; Siegfried Sassoon, Counter-Attack and Other Poems, Memories of an Infantry Officer; Rebecca West, The Return of the Soldier; Virginia Woolf, Jacob's Room.

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