The Boy With A Torn Hat
written by, Thornton Sully
reviewed by, Carl Conrad

In many ways, this book is a struggle – but the struggle is between the author and his reluctance to edit, or be edited, not between the characters in the book. The characters of this novel are much more carefully and stylishly delineated than is the author behind them.

Who is this man who prints a book with scores of omitted and misused words, spelling errors, and what seems to be an undisciplined penchant for indiscriminate punctuation, yet who tosses puns and word contrivances at the reader as joyously as a jokester might throw pies in the face of a clown? Who, essentially, is the joke on?

After having finished reading this book, my first impression was: Don’t let a professional reviewer or editor see it yet! That’s because this book is at least one complete edit from being printed. Sometimes filled with penetrating insights and cleverly-written metaphors, but often interspersed by mismatched tenses, gaps where words belong, or sound-alike words that are selected for their nuanced meanings more than for their clarity (hornithologist instead of ornithologist; screwtiny instead of scrutiny; repugnizance instead of recognizance, or synthesizers instead of sympathizers, as just some examples), this book is like a delicious stew that has chunks of pineapple and suet mistakenly, or perhaps intentionally, thrown in which give it a strange and unsettling taste.

A group of young, idiosyncratic, and socially-inept friends (and acquaintances who are not always friends) traipse around Germany trying to find their way in the world through art, music, endless amounts of beer, wine, drugs, tragedy, and inexplicable events which unfold all around them. Their motive seems to be discovery, yet their method of discovery seems to be desperation, despair, and unrefined lust.

The first third of the book is what I would call a hodgepodge of images, places, and people – taking the reader repeatedly along on the indecipherable journeys of street musicians and artists who meet in bars, sleep in hallways, and perplex each other with stories that reveal their haphazardly hidden secrets.

They stop to set up easels or prop open guitar cases for monetary donations as if these acts alone give them a purpose to their superficiality while the deeper, more confused parts of their lives seem undisturbed except by reverie and self-delusion. To this reviewer, there is no one in this group of characters that I would like to know or with whom I would like to share my thoughts. I accompany them, as they sort through their social quandaries, only because the author seems to think I will benefit from going with them, although it is not a benefit which I understand or ever realize.

Until Chapter 12, I began to wonder if the book would have a focus, not merely be a travelogue of streets and taverns frequented by a gaggle of misfits and wannabes. In this chapter, Morgan, the main character, begins to wonder if he will ever sell a painting to anyone, and begins to question the choices he has made that have brought him to this point in his life. Those who pass him by barely look at his paintings until he puts out those that Renate left behind, a lost and distant love, and unashamedly sells several as if they were his own.

While selling these paintings seemed to provide a means for Morgan to continue his unrequited lust for both painting and Renate, it did not provide a fulcrum for the novel to find the balance that it needed. Just to have a circus tent of characters dashing from tavern to tavern or bed to bed does not give meaning to their travels. The search for meaning on which they all seem to be going falls short on purpose and lacks depth for elucidation.

The question I kept asking myself as a reader was: Why was this book written? Was it merely a memoir of events early in the author’s life, written to remember them by, or was it a coming of age novel written by an older man as he looked back on his life, recalling events fondly that had now passed him by? Or was it just a slice of life about a group of musicians and artists to take the reader on journeys to where they might never have been, even if the reader seemed to find no value in going there? I concluded that it may have been a story without a purpose even though it was written with all the fanfare and drama that a purposeful story might have engendered.

Why, too, — I asked myself — was the author introduced as a character on the next to the last page of the book as “…the great, great grandson of Thomas Sully, America’s finest portrait painter, better than Gilbert Stuart”? Was it just to jab a point at Gilbert Stuart, whom many may justifiably believe was a better portrait painter than Sully? Stuart was even born in America whereas Sully was born in England. Does this still make him an American painter? I actually did not see how this turned events in a different direction, or even how it fit with the rest of the story. Perhaps it was just a way to make the story more believable that now there was someone to confirm it.

Still, now he says that he has found his muse and cares not for the comments or criticisms of others, so perhaps this bit of instruction will go unnoticed, too. Even though, sometimes, it is the voice of others that tells you about that which they want to be told. Listening can be more of a virtue than blindness, although it may not be as comforting.