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Hopeless romantic

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Bartle_Bull&Ana_Cristina_Alvarado.jpgI admit it: my idea of a romance novel is The Fountainhead

Which is not to say that the genre didn't once grip me.  I read Jean M. Auel's The Clan of the Cave Bear when I was eight, and I was duly scandalized by her The Valley of the Horses when I was nine, and after that there was the aforementioned Fountainhead, and then my interests focused elsewhere (with a brief detour to read Bernard Cornwell's The Fallen Angel on the recommendation of a dear friend). 

I'm not judgmental about romance novels or the women who read and love them.  Rather, romance novels - along with all genre fiction - just don't ring my bell.  Genres by their nature are rules-based (whereas I believe life is random).  Genres simplify life in all its messy complexity, and somewhere in the simplification my attention wanders.

That said, I was surprised and interested to learn that there are romance novels for men.  I am aware that they're not marketed as such, but reading Bartle Bull's The White Rhino Hotel, I slowly realized that I was in possession of a genuine romance novel for men. 

The novel's hero, Anton Rider, leaves his adopted gypsy clan in England for the freedom of East Africa, where he uses his strong and luscious body to hunt, rescue friends and maidens, wrestle and fight, and pan for gold.  A virgin who is initiated into the society of the sexually active by an irresistable and insatiable older Portuguese woman, Anton is well-intentioned, uncorruptable and reticent about his machismo.  The White Rhino Hotel's meandering story line is more a series of scenarios in which Anton can pose pretty than an engine that drives a narrative.    

Of course, no reason exists why men, like women, shouldn't enjoy genre romance novels.  We all know that men - like women - enjoy looking at stylized, idealized photos of themselves (e.g., GQ, Men's Health).  But in reading The White Rhino Hotel, I learned something about myself: when it comes to men posing pretty, I prefer the photos.

If I'm going to read about men posing pretty, at least let them be pumped full of the steroids of an over-simplistic ideology masquerading as the "philosophical theory" of Objectivism. 

(Image of Bartle Bull and Ana Cristina Alvarado from New York Social Diary)

The East African Novel

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Bartle_Bull.jpg
Quick: what play involves an incestuous uncle, a sword fight to avenge the honor of a family member, a poisoned goblet of wine drunk by an unintended victim, and a pile of corpses at the play's close?  (If you said, Hamlet, that's a correct answer, but not the play about which I was thinking.)  I'm referring to Thomas Middleton's Women Beware Women, a kind of Jacobean Desperate Housewives, absent the suburbs, and plus verse. 

Women Beware Women and Hamlet, side-by-side, illustrate how playwrights of the late-Elizabethan, early-Jacobean era manipulated certain standardized or formulaic set pieces in order to craft their stories.  The fluency, eloquence and sophistication with which they maneuvered these story components, as contrasted with their originality in devising new components for the story, constituted their skill.  (Hence, Shakespeare borrowed plots from other sources, rather than making up his own.)  This mode of story telling is, in fact, quite ancient: Walter Ong describes how oral poets of Homer's time composed epic poems using "standardized formulas . . . grouped around equally standardized themes, such as the council, the gathering of the army, the challenge, the despoiling of the vanquished, the hero's shield, and so on and on."  (Orality & Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word, p. 23.)

So I felt an odd delight when I realized that, quite unconsciously, I'd been working in the same tradition on my latest novel, The Celebration Husband, which takes place in East Africa during the first three months of World War I.  Upon hearing that I'd written this novel, a friend gave me his seriously tattered-jacketed copy of Bartle Bull's Africa adventure, The White Rhino Hotel.

Reading The White Rhino Hotel, I felt an intriguing sense of recognition.  The novel contained many familiar scenarios, as if Bartle Bull and I had attended the same writing seminar and had both completed the assignment to "write a scene in the following circumstance: East Africa, nineteen-teens, go."

My novel contains: (a) a lion attack, (b) people captivated by the sight of wildlife, (c) crossing Kenya on a train, (d) riding around Kenya on a motorcycle, (e) farmers bemoaning the punishing conditions from which they are attempting to coax agricultural produce, (f) Masai and Kikuyu warriors in oppositional confrontation, (g) descriptions of bush cooking, (h) references to hunting safaris, (i) invocation of the classics, (j) a woman facing down a potential rapist, (k) a close friendship between a smart black African and a naive white colonist, and (l) arcane explanations and depictions of equipment and weaponry.

Every one of those elements appears in The White Rhino Hotel

I can think of a number of reasons for this overlap.  Bull and I might have read the same authors and texts in our research (e.g., Lord Cranworth, Elspeth Huxley, Karen Blixen, Beryl Markham are all fairly ubiquitous as sources on East Africa in the early twentieth century).  Also, these elements all correlate to regularly-occurring events in the reality of East African life between 1914 and 1921 (when The White Rhino Hotel ends), which is why they might crop up repeatedly in the relevant historical texts or stories handed down over the generations.

In short, these elements have become standard set pieces, the lion attack analogous to the Elizabethan / Jacobean sword fight.  They are (what in copyright law is referred to as) mise-en-scene: essential or stock elements of a particular genre.  See, e.g., Universal City Studios v. T-shirt Gallery, Ltd., 634 F. Supp. 1468, 1474 n.5 (S.D.N.Y. 1986).

I hadn't seen my writing from this perspective before, and - although to our novelty-centric culture, the prospect might be threatening or induce a sense of competitiveness - I found unexpectedly comforting aspects in it.  In contradistinction to the isolated novelist in a cottage in Naivasha, which I was for the duration in which I wrote The Celebration Husband, I felt myself in a tradition of storytellers captivated by East Africa in the early twentieth century, all of us sorting and reordering standardized story components of The East African Novel in our individual attempts to ignite the magic of suspension of disbelief.

In a surprising way, it felt good.

(Image of Bartle Bull and the cover of his novel, The White Rhino Hotel, from The New York Times and Fantasticfiction.co.uk respectively)

About this Archive

This page is an archive of recent entries in the The White Rhino Hotel category.

The Valley of the Horses is the previous category.

The Wings of the Dove is the next category.

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