"and he noticed how he was leaning"

January. The sun sets early and the mornings are dark. In December, a friend invited me to read a book with her and I said yes. It was a long book, the semi-autobiographical spy novel by John Le Carré, titled A Perfect Spy. It's about a man named Magnus Pym, a member of the British secret service who has spent his lengthy career operating as a double agent for Czech intelligence efforts.

I started it and thought, "well shit, this was written before AI." Written in the time before so much written content had the same tinny muzak tone to it.

The perspective shifts in A Perfect Spy took some getting used to; the language was complex, idiomatic, quippy. It took me seventy or so pages to find my stride. I had to read in longer chunks than with other books to really enjoy it — but enjoy it, I did. 

Magnus Pym is a shadow. Magnus Pym is the sun. Magnus Pym is a warm handshake and a ready smile. Magnus Pym is a man crossing a street and quickly disappearing around a corner. Magnus Pym is his last promise. Magnus Pym is his next betrayal. 

I didn't expect the book to feel so relevant, but Pym's formative influences are apt for this moment: a con man father whose writing includes exuberant hyperbole and idiosyncratic capitalization reminiscent of a certain con man world leader; an old guard British intelligence agency that has lost its sense of perspective, lost the ability to accurately self-perceive; brash Americans thundering about with their post-war power and adept Czech agents able to understand and manipulate Pym's romanticism, shame, and hubris. 

The title of this post is from a sentence at the very end of the novel. One of those sentences that will stay with me for a very long time. It was worth reading the 473 preceding pages to get to that single sentence.