3.7 6
by Michael Frayn

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Frayn combines the wit of Calvin Trillin with the wisdom of John Updike in this hilarious novel about an unlikely con man wagers wife, wealth, and sanity in pursuit of an elusive Old Master.


Frayn combines the wit of Calvin Trillin with the wisdom of John Updike in this hilarious novel about an unlikely con man wagers wife, wealth, and sanity in pursuit of an elusive Old Master.

Editorial Reviews

No One Expects the Spanish Inquisition!

What would you do if you found a missing masterpiece in your neighbor's attic -- a Van Gogh, say, or a Picasso -- that no one else knew existed? And what if this neighbor was an unforgivable boor, a wife-beater, and a cheat, and possibly a thief? What if he knew nothing whatsoever about art?

What if he asked you to help him sell a few paintings, this one included?

In Headlong, Michael Frayn confronts an ordinarily sedate British scholar of philosophy with just such a quandary -- and hilarity and mayhem ensue. Martin Clay is supposed to be quietly ensconced in his country home, with his art-historian wife Kate and his baby daughter Tilda, writing a treatise on the role of nominalism in the formation of the art of the Netherlands in the 15th century. But Martin is all too easily distracted from his given course, and when Tony Churt, the ill-mannered and down-on-his-luck owner of the local estate, asks for his advice, he's eager to comply.

The advice, as it turns out, revolves around four paintings that have presumably been in Churt's family for generations, paintings that are awkwardly stuffed in a damp, unused breakfast room. Churt, in serious money trouble, needs to sell these paintings, and hopes that Martin and Kate can appraise them. There is a gargantuan Giordano, which is fairly impressive, but as Martin has never heard of Giordano, he thinks it can't be worth much. There are two smaller 17th-century Dutch paintings, both nice, but both apparently from unknown artists working in the styles of greater artists.

And then there's the last one. Painted on an enormous oak panel that the Churts are using to block the draft from the old fireplace is a scene of springtime celebration -- a scene that, for Martin, is immediately recognizable as the work of Dutch master Pieter Bruegel. More importantly, it seems to be the missing member of a six-painting series, a painting that disappeared over 400 years ago. If this painting is what Martin thinks it is, it will not only make him wealthy beyond his wildest dreams, but it will also secure his scholarly future.

But there's one catch: First, he's got to get the painting away from Tony Churt.

Thus begins Martin's comedy -- and tragedy -- of errors. In pursuit of his painting, Martin must get past both his doubting wife, who has seen him take on such wild goose chases before, and the amorous young Laura Churt, Tony's neglected spouse. He also has to outwit another scholar, who may or may not be on the case, and out maneuver Churt himself, who might be using Martin in a scheme that is at best fraudulent, and quite possibly illegal.

But Martin must also overcome his own doubts. Could one glance at this painting really have provided enough evidence that it's a Bruegel? And if so, why did this painting disappear?

Headlong follows Martin through his wild-eyed research into the world of the 16th-century Netherlands, a world filled with both religious and political oppression. We learn, as he does, much about art history, and European history, and a bit about classical philosophy. But mostly we watch Martin's breakneck descent from husband, father, and scholar to schemer, liar, and thief, as his passion for this painting overtakes all else around him. As the terrors of the Spanish Inquisition spread across northern Europe, we wonder what lessons, if any, Bruegel's example teaches Martin, and to what extent he abandons the values his study of philosophy has required.

All this is rendered in Michael Frayn's impeccably hysterical prose. Frayn, author of numerous other novels and volumes of non-fiction, is also a playwright, best known for his riotous farce, Noises Off. In Headlong, Frayn turns a satiric eye on both the landed gentry and the scholarly class, exposing both the ridiculousness and the dark underside of each. Frayn's quick wit is matched by his spectacularly-drawn characters, however, and is made all the more poignant by the sense he conveys of the stakes of Martin's story. If the painting turns out not to be a Bruegel, Martin may well have destroyed his entire life for nothing. And if it is -- well, the outcome may be even worse.

"There are some paintings in the history of art that break free," Martin tells us near the beginning of his adventure, "just as some human beings do, from the confines of the particular little world into which they were born." These paintings -- and these people -- often break free for no particular reason. As Frayn reminds us, some of these paintings, and some of these people, achieve fame beyond the circumstances of their origin, but all too often they wind up lost, consigned to the ash heap of history.

—Kathleen Fitzpatrick

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Frayn, a highly successful playwright (Noises Off) as well as a novelist of note (A Landing on the Sun; Now You Know), is an odd combination of skilled farceur and scholar, and these strands in his work seem somewhat at odds in this new novel, his first in six years. It is an intellectual comedy, veering occasionally into knockabout, revolving around a philosophical historian, Martin Clay, and his discovery, in the dilapidated manor house of a frightful country neighbor, of a painting he believes to be a missing Bruegel. The comedy arises from Martin's efforts to ascertain its provenance, raise some money for a token payment and somehow spirit the painting away from the churlish Tony Churt, calm the suspicions of his art historian wife, Kate, who is surprised by his sudden interest in her field, and fend off the advances of the highly flirtatious Laura Churt. Frayn is wonderfully funny about English country life, the mustier byways of art history, the art auction business and the deviousness that lurks within apparently mild-mannered art historians. But he has obviously read up extensively on Bruegel, his period and the possible political symbolism of the series of paintings of the seasons to which Churt's picture apparently belongs; and Frayn cannot resist giving the benefits of his scholarship back to the reader, at often exhaustive length, entirely halting his promisingly frolicsome narrative in the process. His attempts to give his lighthearted plot some intellectual weight almost sink the good parts--a pity, since Frayn proves himself again and again a highly civilized entertainer, and the good parts are both funny and true. 50,000 first printing; 7-city author tour. (Sept.) Copyright 1999 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
At the heart of this new novel by noted English dramatist Frayn is a dusty painting that bumbling philosopher Martin Clay suspects might be a missing Bruegel. Copyright 1999 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A formidably learned, unfortunately ponderous comic romp from the British playwright (whose Noises Off is a contemporary classic) and novelist (Now You Know, 1993, etc.). Narrator and antihero Martin Clay is a professor of philosophy and amateur art buff, happily married to Julia (herself an art historian), and the doting father of baby daughter Tilda. When the three go on extended holiday in the English countryside, and accept a dinner invitation from insufferably hearty local landowner Tony Churt, Martin's bland life is jolted into concupiscent confusion—for, stowed ingloriously away near some paintings whose value he is invited to judge is the soot-covered find that Martin instantly recognizes as a missing masterpiece executed by 16th-century painter Pieter Bruegel the Elder. Concealing his excitement, Martin sacrifices his vacation (also further deserting the academic book he's supposedly writing), journeying back and forth to London to research the Dutch master's life and times—meanwhile refining the intricate scam by which he'll spirit away the priceless work that, he assures himself, the oafish Churt cannot possibly appreciate. Following some exhaustively regurgitated arcana, Frayn's plot finally kicks into gear, as Martin's master plan suffers repeated modifications, owing to the canny Julia's suspicions, the seductive mendacity of Tony's young wife Laura, the appearance of "another Churt" (Tony's scapegrace younger brother), and several related accidents and misunderstandings. It's all too little, too late. This otherwise admirably engineered story falls apart because Frayn doesn't seem to have decided whether he's writing a "headlong" intellectual farce, or a complexhomage to a great artist (there's an impressive enormity of both detail and perceptive speculation about Bruegel's sensibility and oeuvre) whose lively paintings are subtly encoded, containing "hidden allusions to persecution" practiced by the Spanish rulers of Bruegel's Netherlands. Art historians will understandably love it. Other readers may find it rather more oppressively educational than entertaining. (First printing of 50,000; author tour)

From the Publisher

“Rueful and amusing . . . Frayn is that rare writer who succeeds as both a novelist and a dramatist.” —Randy Cohen, The New York Times Book Review

“Finely wrought and highly comical . . . a perfect introduction to a writer who likes to pull the rug out from under your feet while offering you the most seductive of smiles.” —Michael Upchurch, Seattle Times

“Exceedingly funny, both in event and in intellectual high jinx.” —Katherine A. Powers, The Boston Sunday Globe

“Part detective story, part art history lesson, part cautionary tale, and entirely funny.” —The New Yorker

“Frayn isn't stingy, even here, with the laughs, gleefully pricking holes in the overconfidence of academic art criticism. But just below the sugar powder you bite into his tough-minded essay on how history and individual human folly combine and conspire to manufacture art's 'message.'” —Judith Dunford, Los Angeles Times Book Review

“Delightful...this novel, deadpan hilarious and wonderfully written, is as effective a work of historical reconstruction as it is a comedy.” —David Walton, Philadelphia Inquirer

Headlong offers an enthralling and refreshingly grown-up take on the alarming speed with which our morals shift to accommodate our desires, and on the lofty and low ways in which the great art of the past continues to affect us.” —Elle

Product Details

Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Publication date:

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One


I have a discovery to report. Many of the world's great treasures are known to have been lost over the centuries. I believe I may have found one of them. What follows is the evidence for my claim.

    I'm in a difficult position, though. If my claim is not accepted by scholars, I shall look a fool. If it is ... then I shall be in a worse position. The circumstances of the discovery are such that I shall emerge not only as a fool but as an object of outrage and horror.

    I could say nothing, and no one would ever know. But if I have any pretensions to be a scholar—even to be a normally civilized human being—then I have an obligation to put my findings on record, so that my colleagues and successors, now and down the years, can evaluate them. And I must describe the tangled circumstances of this discovery of mine as fully and honestly as I can, because to arrive at a judgment they will need to examine them in the minutest detail.

    Well, perhaps it's better to be known as a fool or a rogue than not to be known at all.

    It's a painful prospect, though. Before I get to the end of this deposition, I shall have to explain some shameful things. The anguish I feel about them is hard to endure. Even worse, though, is the anguish of my uncertainty about what exactly I have done.

    Now, where do I start?

    The obvious way would be to say what I think this treasure is. And at once a difficulty arises, because it doesn't have a name. I couldsimply describe it—and in due course I shall—but it wouldn't mean very much if I tried to now, because it's never been described before, and no one has ever had the slightest idea of what it looked like.

    I think that the only way I can come at it, the only way I can bear to try, is to give up all attempt at a retrospective account. I shall have to go back in time to the very beginning, and relive what happened as it happened, from one moment to the next, explaining exactly what I thought as I thought it, when all the puzzles were actually in front of me, and what I was trying to do at each moment given the possibilities that seemed open to me then, without the distortions of hindsight.

    This has its disadvantages. My tone's going to sound inappropriately light-minded at times. But that's the way it was. The tone of most of the things we do in life is probably going to turn out to have been painfully unsuitable in the light of what happens later.

    So, from the beginning.

    We're back in last year. Last year is now. It's early spring. A particularly appropriate jumping-off point, as will become apparent.

    What's the first sign that something unusual's starting to happen?

    I suppose it's a length of frayed twine.

    The same length of twine, it occurs to me, that will bring the story to its end.

The Prospect Presented

* * *

* * *

Early spring, yes. It's one of those cautiously hopeful days at the beginning of April, after the clocks have made their great leap forward but before the weather or the more suspicious trees have quite had the courage to follow them, and Kate and I are traveling north in a car crammed with food and books and old saucepans and spare pieces of furniture. We're on our way to the country.

    Where is the country? Good question. I privately think it Begins around Edgware, and goes on until Cape Wrath, but then I don't know much about it. Kate's rather a connoisseur of the stuff, though, and it's not the country for her, not the real country, until we've driven for at least a couple of hours, and turned off the motorway, and got onto the Lavenage road. Even here she's cautious, and I can see what she means. It's all a bit neat and organized still, as if it were merely a representation of the country in an exhibition. The hedges are machined smooth. There are too many stables and riding schools. We get impressive whiffs of decaying vegetable and animal waste from time to time, but we keep passing the wrong sort of houses—the sort of houses you might find around Edgware—and the people don't look right. There aren't many people to be seen, in fact, except in passing cars, like us. A lot of the cars are designed for rural life, it's true—specially squarish vehicles very high off the ground, made to keep their occupants well clear of foot-and-mouth disease. But the people inside them look disconcertingly urban. And on the few occasions when we've got close enough to any of their occupants to smell them—when we've stopped for petrol at Cold Kinver, for instance, or organic vegetables at Castle Quendon—they haven't smelled of earth or dung or moldy turnips. They've smelled of nothing at all, just like us and the people we know in London. I share Kate's unease about this. We don't want to drive a hundred miles out of London only to meet people who have driven a hundred miles out of London to avoid meeting people like us.

    The country, what we call the country, begins after we've turned off the Lavenage road down the unmarked lane just past Busy Bee Honey. After a mile or two the lane begins to fall away into a little forgotten fold in the landscape. The county council has evidently not investigated the state of the hedges here for some time. There's a half-mile squish of mud and shit under the tires where a herd of live cows goes regularly back and forth between meadow and milking shed. Beyond the undergrowth on the left, at one point, is a scattering of bricks and broken tiles, growing a mixed crop of nettles and ancient leaky enamelware. Rusty corrugated iron flaps loose on ramshackle empty structures abandoned in the corners of tussocky fields. Lichen-covered five-bar gates lean at drunken angles on broken hinges, secured with rusty barbed wire. We begin to relax our guard; this is the real stuff, all right. This is what we pay a second lot of bills for.

    We're both silent as we get closer to our destination. It's not the authenticity of our surroundings that's worrying us now. We've started to think about what we're going to find when we arrive. This is our first visit of the year. How damp will the bed be? How cold the kitchen? Will the knives and forks have been stolen? How much will the mice have eaten? Will they have scoffed crucial parts of the bedding again? Will they have started on the electrical insulation?

    This isn't like any of our former visits. This time we're coming not for the weekend, or even the odd week. We're here for two months at least, possibly three or even four. Shall we be able to stand so much reality for so long?

    There's another unsettling novelty about this visit, too—the long box jammed among all the junk on the backseat, and held carefully in its place with two seat belts. Faint sounds are beginning to emerge from it. Kate twists round and gazes at the contents.

    "You did put the nappy-rash cream in?" she asks.

    "We should have woken her up before. You'll have to feed her before we've even got the fire alight."

    Yes, what will Tilda feel about the country? How will she and the mice get along? Will she find the cold and damp as bracing as we do? Will she appreciate the reality of everything?

    I stop the car in the lake that collects in the dip by the wood where we found the dead tramp.

    "Perhaps we should turn around?" I say. "Go back home?"

    Kate looks at me. I remember, too late, that this will count as yet another example of what she sees as my infirmity of purpose, my alleged sudden shifts from one project to another. But all she says this time is: "I'll feed her in the car while you unpack. We'll leave the engine running."

    So we drive on, and the proposal to abandon the expedition is never put to the vote. And now here we are. There's no sign to announce us, just a little track opening off to the left, and a certain unsurprised sensation of having arrived that we recognize, even if visitors wouldn't.

    Since we don't know anyone round here who might want to visit us, though, this isn't really a problem.

    We bump slowly up the track. But when we make the turn beyond the elders, from which this summer we're hoping to get around to making elderflower wine, it's not our familiar green front door that confronts us. It's a length of fraying baler twine.

    There's a lot of baler twine in real country. One of the ways you can tell this is real country is by how much of it's held together with the stuff. Not just bales. Perhaps not bales at all—I've never seen bales of anything tied up with it. Bales of what, anyway? Everything else, though—black plastic sheeting, bright blue plastic bags, gates, trousers, agricultural machinery—everything that used to be secured with string or rusty barbed wire before baler twine was invented. It kinks and unravels, but no one ever throws it away, and it's made of plastic, so it never degrades. Some of it's pink and some of it's orange, so it shows up well against the rural greens and browns. This particular piece is pink, and it's tied across the rear of an ancient Land Rover to hold its tailgate shut.

    No question about the authenticity of this vehicle. It's as rural as a turnip.

    Kate and I look at each other. A visitor! And not some friend from London—a real countryperson. Perhaps, after only two years, local society is putting out friendly feelers.

    I get out to investigate, still in the wrong shoes, still not in country mode, balancing delicately from island to island in the mud. There's a huge barking, and two dogs the size of full-grown sheep come bounding around the side of the cottage. I'm a little taken aback to be kept off my own property by guard dogs—no, not a little taken aback—quite substantially taken aback, smack into the mud I've been avoiding. I'm wrong about the dogs, though; they're not keeping me out—they're welcoming me to the country, enthusiastically thrusting their wet snouts into my groin and wiping their paws confidingly down the front of my sweater. By the time their owner appears around the side of the cottage as well, I look almost as real a part of the scenery as he does. And a more real countryman than him neither Kate nor I has yet set eyes on.

    "Heel!" he says, in an effortlessly landowning kind of voice, and the dogs become instantly subservient. I'm tempted to lie at his feet myself, but find the ground a little too muddy, at any rate until I've got my country trousers on, and instead take the hand he's holding out.

    "Tony Churt," he says. "One of your neighbors."

    He has the grip of a man who's used to wringing the necks of wounded game birds. He's taller than me, and as I raise my eyes to meet his I have plenty of time to take in mud-splashed boots, then mud-colored corduroy trousers and a mud-colored checked jacket. There are holes in his mud-colored jersey, and any hint of garishness suggested by the triangle of muddy green flannel shirt above it is counteracted by his muddy brown tie. He even has a gun, properly broken, in the crook of his arm. His long face, stretching away above me toward a mud-colored flat cap, is the only feature that doesn't quite fit the prevailing color scheme. It's simultaneously raw and bluish-gray, with little overlooked dribbles of dried blood where the razor's nicked it.

    "Thought you might be round the back," he says. "Skelton said you were coming down."

    Mr. Skelton, as Kate and I call him, is the man who fixes the local pumps and septic tanks. We phoned ahead to book his services. I introduce Kate. Tony Churt raises the mud-colored cap and reveals a brief glimpse of receding mud-colored hair.

    "Glad to meet you at last," he says. "I've heard so much about you both."

    "From Mr. Skelton?" asks Kate. Though why not? A man who understands your sewerage might have a lot he could tell about you.

    "From everyone." Everyone? The woman in the paper shop, who knows which papers we take? Charlie Till, who knows what size of free-range eggs we prefer? "We're all so pleased to have you down here. Great bonus."

    The country is finally taking us to its muddy bosom. And Tony Churt has a faint smell that I find instantly and reassuringly authentic. It's the sign that we've always missed in the few other people we've got near enough to sniff, though exactly what it is I find difficult to say. There's dog in the mixture, certainly, and the tarry trace of oiled waterproofs. Also the harshness that goes with a certain kind of rugged woollen cloth. Something else, too. Something stiff and morally bracing. Carbolic soap and cold water, perhaps.

    "Laura and I wondered if you might like to come over one evening," he says. "Dinner, why not?"

    "How kind of you."

    "Nothing special. Say hello. Tell you the local gossip. Get you to tell us what's going on in the great world out there. We get a bit out of touch down here. Monday week? Tuesday? When would suit you?"

    I mention Tilda.

    "Bring her. Of course. Wonderful. Plenty of rooms to park her in. Upwood. Know where it is? So we'll say Monday week, then? Eightish? That fit in with feeding times? We might possibly ask you to help us with a little advice while we're about it, if we may."

    A little advice. Of course. As I reverse to let him out, an alarm goes off inside the car with shattering loudness. Our clever little daughter is trying to warn us that someone is breaking into our lives.

Do we know where Upwood is? Yes, even we know where Upwood is. It's the big rambling house half-hidden in the trees at the head of our private valley. And now of course we know who Tony Churt is as well. He owns the valley.

    Well, not all the valley. Not the patch of land around our cottage, for instance. Our property, as the urban owners of odd half-acres in the country like to tell you humorously in such circumstances, marches with his. The march isn't long enough to make either property very footsore, it's true, but it gives us a bond. We're fellow landowners. Neighboring proprietors. Brother magnates.

    By the time I've got three fan-heaters whirring, and a great log crackling in the hearth, with Tilda full of her mother's milk asleep in front of it, and four assorted oil stoves scenting the rest of the cottage with the cozy stink of kerosene, we're in curiously high spirits. There are fresh patches of damp in the bedroom, it's true, and strange efflorescences on several walls. The mice have eaten the towels and left droppings inside the refrigerator. Other, more surprising changes have come to light, too. I put on a pair of country trousers that I find hanging in the bedroom closet, and can't get them done up round the waist. They've shrunk in the damp. Or is it me that's expanded? Am I catching largeness off Kate? I look at her moving slowly and bulkily about, stacking supplies of nappies on shelves. Three months after the birth, and she's still enormous. She rolls a little as she walks. She does—she rolls! I laugh at her. She smiles at my laughter, and frowns to know the cause of it. I don't say anything, but when she sits down on the long stool in front of the fire to gaze at Tilda, as the gray spring evening outside the windows deepens into night and the three of us fill our little world, I come up behind her, lean over her, take two fat handfuls of face, and tilt it up to kiss, obscurely pleased that there's so much of her to love. Nor am I absolutely displeased that there's a little more of me now to love her.

    "So," I say, sitting down beside her, "we're in with the gentry. All our vaguely leftish prejudices down the drain. Instant corruption."

    "We could say Tilda was ill."

    "You don't want to go?"

    "Do you?"

    Do I? Yes! Why not? Social adventure. Human contact. Life.

    "We shan't enjoy it," says Kate.

    "Of course not. It'll be terrible."

    She says nothing, which is a sign of disagreement. That is, she agrees it'll be terrible, but she knows I mean it'll be wonderfully terrible, a source of amusement, and this is not how she sees life at all. Also, she knows that my mind's made up. For once. And that although it sometimes unmakes itself of its own accord, it's unlikely to be discomposed by external pressure.

    "Come on," I say. "He was charming. He raised his cap to you."

    "I don't understand why he's asking us."

    "He said—he wants our advice."


    "Well, you don't have to give it."

    Because what sort of advice does he want from us? Not, I imagine, our moral advice. Nor our advice about agriculture or animal husbandry. Is some small but vexing question of etiquette or precedence bothering him? Should the Lord Lieutenant take the divorced wife of the Queen's second cousin in to dinner? Do I think it would be all right for him to wear a cummerbund to the Hunt Ball?

    Or could it be my professional advice that he wants? My opinions as a philosopher on some epistemological question that's come to haunt him? Can he ever truly know that his tenants have feelings? Is everything around him—his estate, his brown checked jacket, his Land Rover—really a dream?

    No, Kate and I both know what sort of advice he wants. It's Kate's professional opinion. He has a painting that's always been rumored in the family to be a Constable, a Tintoretto, a Rembrandt, etc. A vase, a jug, a china dog, a porcelain shepherdess, which he of course doesn't suppose for a moment is of any interest or value, but which he'd be grateful if she'd just cast an eye over, if only to set his mind at rest, etc., etc.

    "I'll do all the talking," I assure her.

    Silence. She means I always do. I mean I'll explain to him that she's on holiday, she's on maternity leave, she can't be asked to identify things. And that even if she weren't on holiday, even if there were no small baby in the forefront of her thoughts, even if she were sitting in her office at the Hamlish, being paid to think about art, she doesn't think about art like that. She doesn't identify things. She's not that sort of art historian, whatever the woman in the newspaper shop or the man who fixes the septic tank may have told him.

    More silence. I know what she's thinking. She's thinking that perhaps it's my views on art he wants. Perhaps, she's suggesting ironically, the Churt family has some painting that they've always believed to be by the Master of the Embroidered Foliage, an artist whose name opens up delicate ground between us. I shan't rise to this. I shall remain as silent as she is. But it's a little unkind of her to bring the subject up now, however wordlessly. I've given her no recent cause for recrimination. In fact, I've just suddenly and surprisingly kissed her, which she loves my doing. But I shan't say a word. I shan't even not say a word. I shall simply nudge her fat shoulder and laugh her out of it.

    "Come on," I say. "Just tell him it's a Constable and maybe he'll invite me to go shooting with him."

    And as soon as I say it, and the silence sets in again, I realize that even joking about the possibility of my finding alternatives to writing my book while I'm down here is going to stir her suspicions. She was uneasy enough about my sudden pounce sideways out of philosophy into something more like art, or at any rate the philosophy of art, as if I were trespassing on her territory. She was uneasier still when I decided to take a year off to launch my new career by writing a book about the impact of nominalism on Netherlandish art of the fifteenth century; openly alarmed when, seven months into my sabbatical, I suddenly put the book aside to write an extended essay on one particular artist of the period who'd come to seem to me grossly underrated; and not relieved, but even more alarmed, when two months later, deciding that the Master of the Embroidered Foliage, far from being underrated, had no virtues that I could now perceive I abandoned this extramarital fling as suddenly as I'd begun it, and returned to the lawful embrace of nominalism, now with only five months left to finish the book before I'm due back in my department. Eight of my fourteen months of freedom have gone. She suspects that considerably less than eight fourteenths of the book that is going to launch my new career has yet been written. She fears that, come September, I'll turn out to have jumped off philosophy and fallen short of art. She thinks that I've lost my way in life. That, while her reputation in comparative Christian iconography slowly and methodically grows from year to year, like the standard work of reference she's writing on the subject, I've embarrassingly fallen off the back of the cart. This is why we've come down to the country—to get away from any friends or acquaintances, libraries or galleries, that might put some bright new idea into my head. We shall cook, look after Tilda, and write. There'll be nothing to tempt us out of the house, because there'll be nothing to do out there except fall down in the mud, and no one to speak to but sheep and cows. And now, within hours of arriving, I'm humorously contemplating another sudden relaunch as country gentleman. No wonder she's saying nothing.

    I nudge her shoulder again, reassuringly, and announce a change of subject. "The iconography of sports jackets. Why does Tony Churt's brown checked sports jacket make it clear that he's a country landowner, while my gray pepper-and-salt sports jacket announces me as an urban intellectual? Why does the seediness of my jacket suggest high-mindedness and poverty, while the seediness of his indicates wealth and limited intelligence?"

    Kate says nothing. But says it much more companionably now. Her moment of panic and distrust is over.

    "In fact," I say, "the iconography of the entire estate is quite interesting. The battered Land Rover, the broken gates—they're all expressions of a certain style of ironic understatement. They all shout money. We could do a joint paper on the iconic significance of frayed pink baler twine."

    "Does he have money?" says Kate.

    "Of course he does."

    We go on gazing into the fire together.

    "His name's probably another irony. Tony Churt. He's really Sir Tony. He's Lord Churt."

    "Is he, in fact?"

    "No idea. I'm going to go on thinking of him as Tony."

    Tilda stirs, then settles again. We gaze at her instead of the fire. She's lovely.

    "You're getting as fat as me," says Kate, still looking at Tilda, but I think meaning me, an ambiguity I find curiously touching.

    I say nothing. So I'm getting fat, like her and Tilda. All right. It suits me. I've a fat, phlegmatic, cheerful disposition. We all three of us do. I'm going to finish my book, whatever Kate thinks. Everything's going to be all right. I know that. How do I know it? Well, how do I know that the sun's warm and oranges are orange and Tilda's lovely? There's a simple but philosophically rather profound answer to all these questions:

    I just do.

Meet the Author

Michael Frayn is a celebrated British playwright and is also the author of eight novels (including Headlong and Spies) and three screenplays. He lives in London.

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Headlong 3.7 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 6 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I loved this book - it made me laugh out loud, yet it had a rather sober ending, not what I expected.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is one of the GREAT books of our time. It is the funniest one you will read in 5 years and it is LOADED with wonderful information on painting and Brugel and the art markets and marriage and life. Perhaps the key it to LISTEN to this book on tape. You will not be sorry. The narrator is a riot --
Guest More than 1 year ago
I like Mr. Frayn's writing and loved Noises Off. I thought this would be a great book. It was not. I confess, first of all, that I am an anti-Anglophile. The British as a people are beyond my ability to comprehend (For some reason that country just can't let go of a "tradition" of a royal family, which is nothing more than a sad, dysfunctional, inbred group of nobility gobbling up tons of public money. And don't even start on the "cuisine".). I say this because the main characters of the book were to my mind so stereotypically British (the professors who name a perfectly nice baby "Tilda", and get all hung up on propriety, greed and how things "appear", the boorish landed gentry, etc.) I had trouble becoming interested in the characters. Without interest in the characters, the book didn't grab me. My hang-ups aside, I thought it is exceedingly well written, well researched, and well told.
Guest More than 1 year ago
If you are interested in the art history of dutch painter Breugel, as I am, this is a worthwhile purchase. While the author has a pleasant enough writing style, he never seems sure if this book should be a tame suspense novel or a treatise on all things Breugel. The major disappointment seemed to be in the last chapter. The whole book focuses on the protagonist's obsession with a painting yet the ending is very unimaginative, like the finish of a grade B Hollywood flick where much effort is spent building the tale but no seriuos thought goes into wrapping it up.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I found the story very slow and not particularly funny. The best part of the book was the information about the painter, his era and art history in general.
Guest More than 1 year ago
If you are an Anglophile/like Antiques Roadshowor are interested in art and the issues it brings up this is a good book for you. It captures how art can move you as well as the authors prickly relationship with his wife.