In my continuing search for books published in 1951, I had Nicholas Mosley's "Spaces of the Dark" on my list and gleefully turned up on the net a copy of [Look at the Dark]. I started reading and it was perhaps on the third page that the seemingly autobiographical author was concerning himself with being "politically correct". Was there such a thing in 1951 I wondered? A quick flip back to the front of the book revealed that I was reading Look at the Dark published in 2005 and not Spaces of the Dark 1951. I was enjoying the style of writing and so carried on with a feeling of being set free from my list addiction.

Look at the Dark is not an autobiography: it is a novel written in the first person. An elderly man popular on television as a pundit and an anthropologist by trade, receives a grant for a lecture tour in America. On his first night in New York, he is run over by a truck and his wallet is stolen. He wakes up in a hospital bed and has all the time in the world to think about his past life; along with how he is going to pay his hospital bill. He traces back his life with his two wives and occasional lovers. His first wife has married again and is now living in America, her current husband is extremely rich, having made money from new technology; he has dark, right wing conspiracy theories about the state of the world and the narrator wonders if the accident he has suffered was a botched assassination. The narrator does not only think about the partners in his life, but also if he, himself has served any useful purpose. He is joking about the assassination attempt, but his view of the world is the other side of the spectrum, his son works for an aid agency and his step daughter is working with poor people in Jerusalem. He himself made arrangements to help a young woman flee from Iran when the Shah was in power, but did not pass up the opportunity to take her virginity. He is on good terms with his wife and ex-wife, who seem to be prepared to indulge his whimsical view on life, but the accident has set his cogs whirring.

Flashes of conversations with friends and colleagues come back to him. Circular arguments are reiterated with the narrator either saying "I see" or admitting that he doesn't know. The question of what differentiates us from animals keeps cropping up, with thoughts like:

'one of the main differences is that humans have a compulsion, to accuse to blame, to demand retribution and the power of language is only used as a tool for humans to deceive one another. Perhaps the best thing would be for humans to be killed off and another species be given a chance to develop.'

No problems are solved from his hospital bed, nor are they when his wife comes to collect him, but the narrator realises he is running out of time.

The book has undeniable charm, the circular nature of some of the arguments are brief and amusing, even if they are those that might be uttered by a wealthy upperclass British subject. We never learn his name, but we do learn of his struggles to make a place for himself in the hierarchy and in other peoples lives. The narrator can afford to be humorous and if the reader is happy with this approach then it is an enjoyable read 3.5 stars. ( )