The Foxes Come at Night
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The Foxes Come at Night, by Cees Nooteboom, translated by Ina Rilke, MacLehose, RRP£12, 252 pages
If Cees Nooteboom was a scent, he’d be a splash of cologne, a puff of cigar smoke, the comforting whiff of old leather bindings in a club library. Few writers exude worldliness like this Dutch stylist. It’s as if he has one eyebrow perpetually raised, not in judgment but in recognition of life’s essential ridiculousness.
Dwelling on memory and death, this collection of short stories confirms Nooteboom’s reputation for elegance. Phrase-making apart, though, The Foxes Come at Night isn’t always a congenial read. Reality’s refusal to conform to literature’s patterns is a recurring theme. Most of the stories centre on an absence; several feature a character attempting to recall a dead friend or lover by looking at an old photograph. Energy is sacrificed to atmosphere.
“Dénouement? None,” declares one of the narrators. “This is real life, clueless and plotless.” It’s a fair observation but one that left this reader feeling a little cheated.
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