“This Blind Night Walk”: John Le Carré, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy


He did not like to leave her there in the dark, swaying under the trees, so he walked her halfway back to the house, neither of them talking. As he went down the road, he heard her humming again, so loud it was like a scream. But it was nothing to the mayhem inside him just then, the currents of alarm and anger and disgust at this blind night walk, with God knew what bodies at the end.

Like The Spy Who Came In From the ColdTinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy uses its spy-thriller plot as a vehicle for the exploration of character. It has a more intricate and layered plot, though, and it involves a larger cast of characters, so in both respects it makes greater demands on the reader–and the reader reaps correspondingly greater rewards. Because it takes so long to unpick the knot at the center of the novel, we have more time to recognize the stakes, and to appreciate the toll such protracted suspicion and interrogation–of the past, of other people, of one’s own motives–take on everyone involved, but especially on George Smiley, who is an unlikely and often unwilling protagonist in this quest for ugly revelations.

I was fascinated by the structure of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. It begins not at the beginning, and not in medias res, but afterwards, when everything it is ostensibly about has already happened. It is a drama, then, not of action but of hard-won retrospective understanding–of memories, scattered, repressed, and painstakingly (often painfully) collated until the whole story is finally present and can be brought to its uneasy resolution. Collation is a strange form of heroism, but then Smiley–“small, podgy, and at best middle-aged”–is a strange kind of hero, with his unsettling blend of avuncular calm and predatory focus.

tinker-tailor-2As I did with Spy, I read Tinker, Tailor with mostly passive fascination, not trying to get ahead of Smiley to the truth about the mole known as “Gerald”–which is not to say I didn’t have my guesses, but the novel is not written to satisfy fair play conventions, and we only get information as it is doled out, by Le Carré as he chooses whose story to tell next and by Smiley, whose tactical reticence is its own form of genius. Smiley is of course the greatest of the characters here, but they are all–from gruff Jim Prideaux and his “watcher,” little Bill “Jumbo” Roach, to the four members of the Circus who give the novel its name–rendered with memorable specificity. Le Carré creates not just a world but multiple worlds, too, the best of them the damp, grubby, second-hand London in which Smiley conducts his backwards investigation. As he carries out his inquiries, we make excursions to other times and places, some louder and more lively, some even darker and more fraught with menace. But we always come back with Smiley to the Hotel Islay in Sussex Gardens, where he stays still while moving, in his mind, without cease:

As Smiley retraced path after path into his own past, there was no longer any difference between the two: forwards or backwards, it was the same journey and its destination lay ahead of him. There was nothing in that room, no object among that whole magpie collection of tattered hotel junk, that separated him from the rooms of his recollection. . . .This mental transposition was so complete in Smiley that when his phone rang . . .  he had to give himself time to remember where he was.

There’s intellectual satisfaction as the pieces come together, and I felt a touch of pride that by the end I could grasp the plot Smiley eventually unravels for us, though of course that’s Le Carré’s accomplishment, not mine–to make the facts elusive and yet also to make their revelation both clear and seemingly inevitable.

guiness-tinker-tailorWhat’s particularly brilliant, though, is the way that in its very final chapters–once the mole’s identity is confirmed and thus the puzzle that is supposedly central to the novel has been solved–Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy turns on itself. After all that time and work, there is no satisfaction, no triumph, for Smiley, in his own success. Instead, abruptly, what was almost an abstract research exercise becomes all too real, its consequences all too human:

The wave of angry doubt that had swept over him in Lacon’s garden, and that ever since had pulled against his progress like a worrying tide, drove him now on to the rocks of despair, and then to mutiny: I refuse. Nothing is worth the destruction of another human being. Somewhere the path of pain and betrayal must end. Until that happened, there was no future; there was only a continued slide into still more terrifying versions of the present. This man was my friend and Ann’s lover, Jim’s friend and–for all I know–Jim’s lover, too; it was the treason, not the man, that belonged to the public domain.

What is it all for, after all, this ruthless pursuit? Is it not, in its own way, a betrayal as bad? What can or should command the kind of loyalty that exacts such a price?

Smiley felt not only disgust, but, despite all that the moment meant to him, a surge of resentment against the institutions he was supposed to be protecting. . . . such men invalidated any contract–why should anyone be loyal to them?

It’s not that Smiley has ever been naive or idealistic–not in this novel anyway, though we get hints of an earlier, more openhearted version. He’s lived throughout Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy with a more personal betrayal, after all, and there’s no sign at the end of any redemption there either: “tall and puckish, extraordinarily beautiful, essentially another man’s woman.” For all the shopworn disillusionment that haunts the novel, though, Smiley’s grief at the outcome he himself has brought about is its own kind of bittersweet grace, and there’s a bit of comfort in sensing that even after all of this, he holds on to the possibility of something better: “Illusion? Was that really Karla’s name for love?”

6 thoughts on ““This Blind Night Walk”: John Le Carré, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

  1. banff1972 February 13, 2018 / 9:40 pm

    Great review. I own this one. Can I read it without reading other Le Carré first?

    Liked by 1 person

    • Rohan Maitzen February 13, 2018 / 10:08 pm

      Yes. I’ve only read one other, after all, and it is more or less a stand-alone only very peripherally related to this one.

      On an unrelated and probably idiosyncratic note, it’s interesting that you call this a “review.” I (almost) never consider my blog posts reviews (to me they are something different called ‘blog posts’) but now I’m thinking about why not. I guess one difference is that I feel no obligation to recount anything concrete about plots (sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t) and also feel free to be both personal and meandering–even impressionistic. If I think of something as a review, I feel more of an obligation to “cover” things properly, somehow. Hmmm. Genre: can’t make perfect sense of it, can’t proceed without at least some intuition about it!

      Liked by 2 people

      • banff1972 February 13, 2018 / 10:21 pm

        Hmm… interesting… I don’t know why I said “review” instead of what I’d usually say, “post.” But I also think it *is* a review. The most uninteresting way to think about reviews is as a thumbs up/thumbs down/five stars/should I buy or not (not what you do). But I’m thinking of review as any reckoning with a text, which your posts always do. I don’t think of reviews as connected to plots or coverage.
        Either way, whatever this is, I enjoyed it!

        Liked by 1 person

        • Rohan Maitzen February 13, 2018 / 10:36 pm

          Oh, I agree about that, and I hope when I write a “review” I never do a thumbs up or down. I didn’t actually mention evaluation in my comment (though I do think it is a more or less implicit part of all criticism—which would be my own more catch-all term for textual reckoning). Anyway, not a big deal, just something that got me thinking about what I write here vs what I write for other purposes.

          Liked by 1 person

          • banff1972 February 13, 2018 / 10:53 pm

            Do you like writing for your blog more than writing for other purposes, or are they just different things?

            Liked by 1 person

  2. Rohan Maitzen February 14, 2018 / 9:23 am

    I enjoy it more, because it’s so free from external obligations, but of course that same freedom means that sometimes I’m less satisfied with the results because I (deliberately) do not fuss or edit a lot, so there might be infelicities or redundancies or just plain rambling that I would revise if I were thinking of it as a more formal exercise. But it’s really important to me to keep my blogging something I do on these terms.

    Liked by 2 people

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.