I, Lucifer

Title: I, Lucifer
Author: Glen Duncan
Publication: 2002 (Scribner), 2003 (Grove Press)
ISBN:
 trade paperback: (UK, Scribner) 0-7432-2013-7
 trade Paperback: (US, Grove Press) 0-8021-4014-9
Other: shortlisted for the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize

You know, setting aside from all the melodrama and general angst about Lucifer ("Fallen Angel, Prince of Darkness, Bringer of Light, Ruler of Hell, Lord of the Flies, Father of Lies, Apostate Supreme, Tempter of Mankind, Old Serpent, Prince of This World, Seducer, Accuser, Tormentor, Blasphemer, and without doubt Best Fuck in the Seen and Unseen Universe") generated by overly sympathetic poets like Milton, the fallen angel is probably a bit of a wanker. Really, how could he not be? Aside from being God's private joke, he sits around for the rest of eternity tempting us humans to do silly things. The poor thing has really too much time on his hands and an unhealthy fascination for the colour red. So if he turned out to be a total punk smartass with the mentality of a rebellious adolescent, it wouldn't be all that surprising, right?

You know what? You'd be right. He is a wanker.

Sulking in New York City and amusing himself to pass the time, Lucifer is visited by Gabriel ("once a carrier pigeon always a carrier pigeon") and is offered, literally, a chance of a lifetime: if he can spend a lifetime inside a mortal body, he can return to Heaven. You know, go back to square one, with the heavenly hosannas and harps. Hang out with the cool crowd again. The alternative is a lot worse: being reduced to nothingness by God. Lucifer, the old chap, he's a natural-born skeptic - you can't play dice with God, after all - so he demands a trial run of one month ("not February") before signing up for the whole enchilada, name signed in blood on the dotted line and all.

Enter Declan Gunn¹, a sad sallow-faced wreck of a man living in shabby flat in London. Flabby, pot-bellied, and not at all attractive, he's been as suicidal as a Disney lemming ever since Penelope, the woman he both adores and loathes, cheated on him. He is broke as a beggar ("two words for his bank account: oh dear"), is afflicted with a number of complexes (the Madonna-whore complex and the Oedipus complex being the least of them), and worst of all, has a bad back.

Guess who Lucifer has to live inside? (Well, if there's anything to be said about God, it's that He has a sense of humor.)

Aside from being a sorry specimen of humanity, Declan Gunn is also a writer. Lucifer takes advantage of this, using it an opportunity to pen a memoir about himself - this novel - while doing what the Devil does best: living in sin. The bank account adjusted to suit (£79,666), Lucifer does all the things that Declan never had the chance to do, manipulating the body like a puppet. Like get a proper wardrobe, for one. Write a screenplay to be made into a Hollywood movie. Oh, and of course, sleep with various women in various parts of London: Violet, a wannabe actress hungry to make it big (utilizing the time-honored casting couch technique); Harriet, a woman who sold her soul in exchange for a rich husband (who is, incidentally, now dead); and Tracy. In the meantime, Lucifer thumbs his nose at the constant stream of angelic visitors coming to visit (read: gawk at) him, giving them the finger and a farewell ("fack orrf!"), whether it's Michael, Uriel, or even Raphael, of which the latter, bizarrely enough, really, truly loves Lucifer more than anything else in this world (and this may or may not include God, but Raphael's not saying).

But even these sorts of things get old, and the longer Lucifer sits inside the body, the more familiar he becomes with the person known as Declan Gunn. And despite being well-known - famous, even - for encouraging people to give in to their temptations, Lucifer finds himself taking control of Declan Gunn's life to do the right thing instead. At least one right thing, anyhow, which spurs complete pandemonium in both Heaven and Hell.

Billed as a satire, I, Lucifer is a story loosely - very loosely - wrapped around a plot. The narrator frequently trails off into indignant ramblings, as if Señor Diablo really, really needed to get some things off his chest and didn't care if he ran over a couple of small cute animals in the process. Like what really happened with Adam and Eve. Or how he spent his entire time trying to convince Judas that betraying Jesus was, like, totally not a good idea. Or what was up with the Holocaust. Or how waving the results of the Milgram experiment in God's face totally back-fired on him. The arch, self-congratulatory tone to the text can probably be excused (hey, it is the Prince of Darkness after all), but unless you are very fond of this sort of thing, you will have to repress urges to (metaphorically) smack the protagonist. Kind of like the feeling you get when you encounter any Palahnuik character, come to think about it. Lucifer, frankly speaking, is a smartass, and apparently one of those people that must have the last word. (You know the type.) He can't help it. Having five senses is a new and wonderful toy to him, and by Jove, he's going to take advantage of it. Whether it's the London Underground ("depresses God"), New York City ("a toilet"), Gabriel ("sanctimonious pont"), or Michael ("irritating air of privy intelligence"), our sassy protagonist has a quip and observance about everything, delivered fresh and sharp in rapid-fire snappiness. The reader will either find Lucifer - and, in fact, the entire book - very amusing or very aggravating.

I'm supposed to be guilty of all sorts of crimes and misdemeanors, but when you get right down to it, I'm really only guilty of one: wondering. The road to Hell, you say, is paved with good intentions. Charming. But actually it's paved with intriguing questions. You want to know. Man do you want to know! I wonder what it'd be like to stick this bread-knife in his throat? Whose question do you think that is? You'd be surprised. It's the young mother's, slicing through the still warm loaf while her under-two sits facing her in his highchair, gurgling, a mauled and sodden Jammy Dodger clutched in his tiny mit. She's not going to, obviously, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, but you know, it's there, the wonder, the beautiful, abstract curiosity.

Lucifer

The memoir comes down to the problem of what, exactly, Lucifer wants. Evil doesn't exist for the sake of itself, after all. Does he love God? Sure, that's not a problem. Does he really want to be evil? Not really. Does he mind the pain? Sure. So will he go back? No sir, no thanks. So why...? It's pretty simple, if you think about it. Something that you, a human, would understand and something that say, God, might not. But Lucifer's not the type to tell all. If you get it, good; if you don't, that's fine, too. But he's really got to go, there's this, well, rebellion going on. Maybe Raphael will stick around to tell you.

but what you didn't count on
was another mother of a mother revolution
you could've have me right there beside you
you could've have me
right there beside you

The CD

Title: I, Lucifer
Artist: Real Tuesday Weld
Production: 2004

Track Listing

1. It's a Dirty Job But Somebody's Got to Do It
2. Bathtime in Clerkenwell
3. The Ugly and the Beautiful
4. (Still) Terminally Ambivalent Over You
5. Coming Back Down to Earth
6. One More Chance
7. The Eternal Seduction of Eve
8. La Bête et la Belle
9. The Life and Times of the Clerkenwell Kid
10. The Show Must Go On
11. Heaven Can't Wait
12. Someday

The novel and the CD were co-projects worked on simultaneously by their respective creators. The CD is partly inspired by the fact that the two creators once shared a flat in Clerkenwell. The CD stands in stark contrast to the book; while the book is brash, unabashedly smug and very hip, the CD is laid back, comfortable with being simultaneously retro and modern. Ranging from jazz to blues and updated with a touch of electronica, listening to the music is a bit like having the 1930s re-enacted in the present. The tracks employ a little of everything - the spoken word, scat singing, or white noise static. It's very old-school and rather stylish, with a little bit of a devil-may-care attitude that would be appropriate for someone like the Great Adversary.

¹ Declan Gunn = Glen Duncan. Do you not see the cleverness?
Some information from Real Tuesday Weld's website (http://www.tuesdayweld.com/). Lyrics are courtesy of Tori Amos, "Mother Revolution." Yes, I know "Father Lucifer" might've been better, but this one is oddly appropriate.

A satirical novel about free will, humanity, and incidentally, carnal desire.

"There's a long story and a short one. If you don't believe in God or free will there's really only one long story, an anti-morality tale in which no-one's to blame for anything."
—Lucifer

A word of advice. Don't read this book in a cafe where there's a Bible Study group having a social meeting, and above all, don't laugh aloud. And you may well laugh. Duncan's (Lucifer's) observations on what humanity is made me chortle on several occasions. "One month's trial period before I sign up for a lifetime of earwax and flu" had me, and it was downhill from there. That and the blood-red cover (not to mention the title) attracted a few tuts from them at the outset (nosy Christians!) but my continued laughter clearly pushed them over the edge. One is clearly not meant to laugh when reading a book with this title. I'm probably still being prayed over several days later because I'm clearly past any human intervention (and boy, did they try!)

But this book is funny, and cleverly thoughtful at times. The author clearly has a jaundiced view of his fellow humans, and his character Lucifer clearly shares this view. Humans are dirty and funny and unfortunate and Duncan, through Lucifer, mocks us at every turn, ridiculing our bodies, our desires, our sexual activity, and all with an occasionally crass British humour. He often calls back to British music (The Rolling Stones' Sympathy For The Devil, obviously, but also references to punk and post-punk (XTC for example). He does not like Elton John though (no comment from me).

Lucifer is pretty frank about his own desires and judgements and is unafraid to talk shit about (and to) God's angels when they come to talk with him, and especially at the outset when he's offered the chance to go home. That said, he's equally rude about demons too, calling many out by name. But he is, after all Lucifer, so it's in character. The author has also clearly thought about desire and purpose, leaving little doubt which path both he and his character are on, but approaching it with a kind of crass honest humour that is occasionally hard to handle (hence my frequent oubursts of laughter).

Is it a good read? Yes, it is, but this is no Good Omens, and the author is no Neil Gaiman. The plot is less complicated, but the reader is required to collect and process a lot of backstory as they proceed. It's fun and intriguing, and does present as promised "the other side of the story" of the Battle between Good and Evil, God and The Devil. He's not above criticising God, as you'd expect, presenting Him in a not-Good light—"He looks like a foul-tempered Father Christmas", a narcissistic and insecure being who needs constant adulation from the choirs of angels and who is devious, untruthful and deceitful. One certainly starts to see Lucifer as the more whole being, and even feel some sympathy with him, and for him. The Temptation in the Desert scene is wonderful and I found myself rooting for him even though I knew the outcome (spoilers, having read the Bible many times!)

Lucifer in a human frame also makes me appreciate the Things We Take For Granted Every Day:

To start with: sleep. How did I ever do without it? Actually not sleep itself, but falling asleep. How did I ever survive without this business of falling asleep? There are…all sorts of things I'm wondering how I ever got along without. Israeli vine tomatoes. Campo Viejo Rioja. Heroin. Burping. Bollinger. Cigarettes. The sting of aftershave. Cocaine. Orgasm. Lucifer Risings. The aroma of coffee. (Coffee justifies the existence of the word 'aroma'.) There are, naturally, plenty of things I don't know how you put up with-disc jockeys, hangnails, trapped wind, All Bran - but then I knew it was going to be a mixed bag.

There are moments of sheer genius and it makes a good retelling of some well-known tales.

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