Mortal Leap, by MacDonald Harris

June 15th, 2008

Cover of first U.S. edition of 'Mortal Leap'

· Excerpt
· Editor’s Comments
· Find Out More

· Locate a Copy


Excerpt


On top there were some flannel slacks and a pair of tailored Bermuda shorts. A half-dozen handkerchiefs, monogrammed “BD.” A pair of tan loafers, some sports shirts in conservative solid colors. Sunglasses, underwear, an electric razor with its cord, socks inArgyll plaids. Strapped into the top of the lid was a carefully folded sports jacket, a soft tweed in a dark bluish gray. Everything was expensive, conservative, and carefully packed. These things were mine now, I thought, or rather I belonged to tem. I wondered whether something would change in me when I put them on and I would feel different, or whether it would be the other way around, my essence that would sink into the clothes, gradually wearing away their strangeness and making them familiar. For that, of course, you would have to have an essence. On the whole I would have preferred to stay as I was in the anonymous hospital pajamas. But the clothes were mine now for better or worse; I had passed the point where I could choose or reject.

I lowered the lid carefully and latched it. On the long and precarious journey back to the bed I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It was the face of a stranger, a patchwork in various shades of red, expressionless except for the left side of the mouth still pulled a little upward by the shrunken muscle. The leanness was skull-like; growing out of the scalp there were meager tufts of brown hair. You’re an ugly brute whoever you are, I told the face in the glass. But I knew who he was; he was the owner of the clothes in the suitcase. For a few seconds that afternoon I had balanced on the razor edge, and then I had chosen and now the clothes were mine, or rather they were myself, a new human being I would have to study and master. For an instant I felt the vertigo of empty space: where was I going? I realized I was still sick and I got back in bed.



Editor’s Comments


Mortal Leap tells a story it seems as if we’ve seen on TV a dozen times: a man takes on another’s identity, abandoning his own, and lives out a new life. But have we?

There are plenty of stories of mistaken identity, and plenty more, like the Kevin Kline comedy, “Dave”, where one person pretends to be another (in that case, the President of the United States) to deceive others. In Mortal Leap, however, we are led, with careful attention to detail, motivation, and effect, through a man’s decision to utterly abandon the life he’s lived, the person he’s become in twenty-some years since birth, and become another man. Another man with a history, possessions, relationships, traits, habits. Another man with a wife, a family, a life already being lived. Have we ever really heard this story before?

In this book, his second novel, MacDonald Harris takes us, as if in freeze-frame, through a salto mortale–literally, a mortal leap–the circus acrobat’s mid-air vault from one trapeze to another. We follow the nameless protagonist as he swings back and forth through a life as a merchant seaman in the 1930s and early 1940s. Running away from a strict Mormon family, he makes his way to Oakland, where he gets a berth on a tramp freighter. He’s befriended by a veteran hand, a former Russian anarchist, who teaches him how to survive–but also uses him to escape from arrest for smuggling drugs. The man spends time in San Quentin prison, then returns to the sea. He learns enough to gain a third-class officer’s cap, but other than that, his life is an endless routine of watches, ports, whores, and booze. He realizes that his shipmates care a little for him and he for them: that when his time comes, they will watch him die “without sympathy, without curiosity, simply indifferent.”

Then, his freighter is sent to take a load of fuel and supplies to a nameless southwest Pacific island–probably Guadalcanal. Ambushed along with its escort by a group of Japanese ships, the ship is hit and sunk. The man survives and makes it to an unhabited atoll. There he encounters and kills a downed Japanese pilot. He takes the pilot’s life raft and attempts to cross the channel one night to rejoin the Americans. His crossing, however, takes him into the direct path of a skirmish between the U.S. and Japanese navies. The raft is lost and the man is caught in the swirl of debris and burning oil around a sinking U.S. frigate. His face and hands are severely burned, but a sailor rescues him just before he drowns.

In Harris’ narrative, this is the moment when the acrobat lets go of the first bar:

What happened was simple, even banal: I became naked, died, lost parts of my flesh and most of my ego along with a few illusions such as a belief in the uniqueness of my personal scrap of consciousness and the cosmic importance thereof, and went on from there. All that was left was something inside that I don’t know what to call–a soul?

He is evacuated to a Navy hospital in Hawaii. “There,” Harris writes,

I lay for three months in a hospital bed, an inert network of pains, discomfort, smells. Inside was nobody. There was only a nexus of existence, buried very deep and only gradually working to the surface. Out of habit the body went on breathing, eating, excreting, being awake and connected to its eyes and ears. Inside lay the awareness, and was magnificently uninterested in everything that went on outside.

When the doctors and hospital staff attempt to determine his identity, he tells them nothing. He has let go and is in free fall. The only thing he knows for certain is that he cannot go back.

From the circumstances of his rescue, his apparent age and physical features, Navy investigators finally speculate that the man is Lieutenant Ben Davenant, an officer on the U.S.S. Marcus, one of the ships lost in the night battle. They send a photo of the man’s scarred face to Davenant’s parents, who do not recognize him. Davenant’s wife, however, comes to Hawaii to see for herself.

The man still has no intention of doing anything, of merely plunging forward into oblivion. But then the wife comes into the hospital room and another trapeze appears before him:

A moment later she was bending over the bed and I felt the light touch of her lips on my forehead; I caught an elusive scent of linen and perfume. Even then I was not fully awake. And yet in those few seconds when everything hung on a knife edge I committed myself by my silence. I felt words forming in my mouth, but I couldn’t arrange them properly; the time passed when I might have spoken and still I said nothing.

One could say that the salto mortale analogy–which Harris himself introduces later in the book–misses the point somewhat. The man doesn’t grab for the other bar. He merely says nothing–he allows the woman to say that he is Davenant. And at first, though he goes along with the deceit, he’s in many ways just as passive as he was in free fall. Ary, the wife, takes charge. She gets them back to the U.S., arranges for man/Davenant’s discharge, and settles them in her father’s large seaside house in Laguna Beach.

Becoming another person, as Harris shows us, is much harder than it ever seems in the movies. There are so many little practical hurdles. The man, after all, was a rough merchant sailor before, and now he is in the midst of a wealthy, cultured family. He has to learn not to dig wax out of his ear with his pinky, not to ask for ketchup when eating a steak, how to mix a cocktail.

When I began to grasp the complexity of what I had to do I felt like a trained baboon trying to play a cello. At every turn it seemed there was a new decision, probably crucial, although I could never be sure. What did I want for dinner? Which necktie should I put on? Did you wear a necktie at all to go to the Coast Inn at eight o’clock for drinks? Before a rack of neckties I was in a cold sweat.

I first read Mortal Leap almost thirty years ago, and I remember how the narrative seized my attention. It was one of those books you begrudge the rest of your life for taking you away from. When you don’t know how it’s going to turn out, you feel as if you are hurtling forward along with the protagonist.

When I reread the book recently, it seemed even more powerful and affecting. I knew how it would turn out, but now the suspense was in seeing how Harris could make it plausible. What I saw this time around was how he manages to make this wildly improbable situation into a very basic lesson about being. So the man learns how to imitate Ben Davenant without getting caught–or at least, so he thinks. The man has made the leap and a new bar is in his hands. But he still has to confront the question, “Now what?”

It wasn’t a matter of convincing these people or anybody else that I was something I was not, or even of trying to make myself into something they wanted me to be. It was a matter of making myself into something I would decide; of asking myself what was the best I had and what I could make with it and then working as hard as I could to make it.

“In order for it to be a life you had to make something, even if it wasn’t something very important,” the man concludes. What was wrong with the life he’d led before being caught in the battle and burned “had not been dishonesty or embezzlement or cowardice or even murder,” he concludes. “My real sin had been apathy, the kind of cockeyed contempt for everything I had learned from the others on all the bad ships I had sailed on in all those pointless wandering years.”

Ironically, MacDonald Harris was, himself, an invention. His real name was Donald Heiney, a merchant sailor and naval officer who’d gone to college on the G.I. Bill after World War Two and become a professor of literature. MacDonald Harris was his pen name, which he used first for short stories he wrote for magazines and then, beginning in the early 1960s, for a total sixteen novels, a non-fiction book, and one short story collection published before his death in 1993. His work often received strong critical praise, and C.P. Snow once said of him, “Harris is a real writer, and I don’t use that phrase except of someone who ought to be cherished and encouraged.”

Since his death, his son, Paul Heiney, has maintained a set of web pages (http://www.physics.upenn.edu/~heiney/harris) about Harris/Heiney’s life and work. Although his most popular book, The Balloonist, was nominated for the National Book Award, none of his works are now in print. Mortal Leap was barely even noticed by critics when first published and never even rated a paperback reissue. Among the few items you’ll find about MacDonald Harris now is an admiring tribute by the highly-successful author, Philip Pullman. Pullman writes of Harris’s work that,

… there is a consistency despite the huge variety in setting and subject matter, and that lies in the intelligence, the quietness, the subtle astringency of manner; in a sensibility and temperament that is experienced rather than innocent, ironic rather than emotional, sceptical rather than credulous; if I wanted to be mischievous, I might say European rather than American. And there is a constant preoccupation with the mystery of identity.

And in none of his books does Harris confront this mystery better than in Mortal Leap. You can find at least thirty copies of this novel for sale on the Internet, most of them under $10. Get one and see if you don’t find yourself asking a question or two about your own identity.



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11 Responses to “Mortal Leap, by MacDonald Harris”

  1. Ann Heiney Says:

    Dear Mr. Bigelow,

    My son Paul forwarded to me your message regarding your posting my husband’s novel on your NeglectedBooks website. (He will be abashed to learn he addressed the email to Mr. Pullman!) I want to add my thanks to his for helping to keep Harris’s writing in the public awareness, and for providing recommendations for where his books can be found. I am appreciative of Philip Pullman’s tribute especially because he stresses the point that it is the underlying sensibility and temperament that link the one novel to another.
    Your comment, “Ironically, MacDonald Harris was, himself, an invention”, is very perceptive. He early felt the need to separate the Heiney/Harris identities because recognition as a college professor is an unwelcome suggestion of stuffiness for a novelist, and being a writer of fiction, at the time he began writing, was viewed at some universities as time taken away from research and criticism. Of course, beyond this, the mystery of identity remained his preoccupation throughout his career; “Herma” and “Screen Play” are prime examples.
    Again, thank you
    Sincerely,
    Ann Heiney (Mrs. Donald Heiney)

  2. editor Says:

    Mrs. Heiney–Thank you for your very kind note. Mortal Leap wasn’t the first of your husband’s books I read, but it’s the one that’s stuck with me the most over the years. I’m just sorry it took me this long to get around to featuring it.

  3. Rod Says:

    Thanks for featuring this book. I read The Balloonist before this, which I much enjoyed, but I liked Mortal Leap even more. I did indeed feel myself propelled along with the protagonist, as you described. Harris is a terrific writer, that’s for sure, and I have a number of other selections of his lined up to read next; I’ll probably read Trepleff next. Thanks again.

  4. editor Says:

    Thanks for your comment. It’s always great to hear when someone decides to try one of the books I feature … and finds it just as interesting and exciting.

    I’ve read a fair number of Harris’ other novels, but for some unexplainable reason, Trepleff put me off. Please let us know what you think of it.

  5. Rod Says:

    I started reading Trepleff and got about twenty pages in and then put it aside because I just wasn’t “feeling it.” For some indefinable reason it didn’t feel like the book I wanted to be reading now, but I’ll more than likely try it again later. Mortal Leap, on the other hand, I was hooked on after ten pages and had no doubt that I would finish.

    I trust your taste; which other Harris books would you recommend?

  6. editor Says:

    I liked Screenplay, although it’s pretty lightweight. Yukiko has a strong narrative but has a twist at the end that might not be to all tastes. Pandora’s Galley is fun, rich with historical details and fine dialogues.

  7. Dani Kaye Says:

    Dear Mr Bigelow,
    Many thanks for an absorbing critique. I agree with most of the points you make. However, I must correct you on one factual inaccuracy: ‘Mortal Leap’ did make it into paperback; I own a copy. It’s a Corgi edition (FN7553) published in 1966, which originally was sold in Ausralia for 80c, New Zealand for 6s. 6d, and in the UK for 5s. I picked it up in a charity shop for 50p because I was taken by the rather crude cover art showing a man struggling in the water, hand and face half submerged, while a warship sinks in the background.
    This is the kind of novel that sinks deep into the reader’s mind and surfaces at odd moments for contemplation; to my mind it deserves to be regarded as a classic piece of 2nd World War and psychological fiction: a fine study of the internal damage done to a person who deliberately disenfranchises himself of his own roots and then finds himself with the dubious luxury of reinventing himself. Fascinating stuff.
    Yours sincerely
    Dani F Kaye Dip Ling., MEd (Cantab.), DipPsych.,CMBPS,MBACP.

  8. Dani Kaye Says:

    Dear Mr Bigelow – just a quick addendum to the above: my email address was incorrect in my first message (finger trouble) so I’m correcting it here. Sorry about that!
    Yours sincerely
    Dani Kaye

  9. editor Says:

    There’s a groundswell of interest in this novel going on on Goodreads, thanks to an enthusiastic and thoughtful piece by Goodread member Rod: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/11107252-mortal-leap.

  10. Mike Says:

    Rod’s review sparked a lot of interest since he posted it on goodreads.com. A lot of interest in finding copies, plenty of subsequent favorable reviews. My own used copy was shipped in from Great Britain, and I’m very glad I pursued it.

  11. Rod Says:

    It’d be really great if some publisher would reissue it. Galileo, the UK publisher that reissued The Balloonist and is releasing some more Harris novels (Yukiko, Screenplay, and an unpublished novel called The Carp Castle), has said that it is on their “wish list” but apparently they didn’t have any immediate plans to release it. I’m not sure if that means they already have the rights to it or not. Perhaps the surge of interest on Goodreads will apply the screws a little bit. I can’t imagine there are a lot of people champing at the bit for Screenplay, whereas people are scrounging for copies of Mortal Leap.

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