Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

The owl of Minerva, it is said, only takes wing at dusk. In other words, it is only at the end of an epoch that we can look back upon it with wisdom. However, during the height of the cold war, for the people fighting on the front lines, things must have appeared frustratingly, excuse the pun, frozen. E pur si muove - the undercurrents flowing wildly beneath a surface that everyone desperately tried to keep looking placid despite the ever present noxious odour of mutually guaranteed nuclear extinction that so nearly materialised during the Cuban Missile Crisis under Kennedy. Le Carre's Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy portrays the stultifying yet soul-draining time of both inane tension and a sense of crushing urgency and how men under such trying times deal with the complex webs of relationships, subterfuge, betrayals and ultimate reaffirmation of purpose.

Having worked for the British intelligence services MI5 and MI6, Le Carre (the nom de plume of the much less colourful David Cornwell) bring to his novel what can almost be called an antidote to Bond-esque spy thrillers. The situation is perhaps best summed up by the self-mocking use of the term 'Circus' by in house staff to refer to MI6. The complexity of the situation, the sort of aimless, focus-less, vertiginous spiral each character is ensnared in, not only by their jobs but also the collateral effects the strains put on their personal affairs and relationships is well fleshed. Because emotion is used as a powerful weapon by both sides, with the addition of personal ambitions, vendettas, dispositions and idiosyncrasies simultaneously strengths and weaknesses, these dealers in human weaknesses, whose own raw spots are splayed out for the enemy to engage, are operating on the brink of neurosis. Hence the mutual defections between East and West - perhaps harder to understand are those who relinquish the glades of Cambridge and swears allegiance across the iron curtain. And yet the Cambridge Five stares at us in the face. Of whom Kim Philby is the inspiration for the antagonist in the novel, having been at the top of British Intelligence and negatively influenced Le Carre's career. 

The sadness and loneliness of Smiley; the despondent, cynical, depressing feeling of the inability to trust and hating oneself for not being able to (Peter), the brittle shell of debonair, of control and coolness (Bill Haydon) that one has to put on as much for oneself as for the outer world, all realised with verisimilitude. The grey, smoky, almost sepia like tone of the atmosphere contrasts well with the urgency and ruthlessness of the cold war. I think the tenseness of being at the front lines of the cold war would have been in a way even greater than in WWII. At least in a war you know who you are fighting. I imagine the world becomes a simpler place for a soldier; the enemies are in front of you, your comrades and brothers are next to you. Like the boys in Erich Maria Remarque's All Quiet on the Western Front, Paul had most trouble, it seems, when he returned back home. No wonder many men who didn’t belong in times of peace felt happy during the war as it instilled in them a purpose and meaning and order as well as seeming parity with all other men despite the threat of deaths and hardship. It also lent a sense of honour and camaraderie, a feeling of having taken part in something noble and good. It gave them a sense of belonging. I can very much imagine the satisfaction one might derive. On the other hand, cold war would present very different pressures. The constant watchfulness, second guessing, unending analysing, remembering lies told and aliases used. Not knowing who the enemy is or whom to trust, even those closest to you. The unease, or rather, the soul-gnawing dread that perhaps any moment, from some totally unseen angle, disaster would rear and men in black coats will drag you off the map of existence or your civlization might fall to bits.

The protagonist (rather ingeniously and sarcastically named Smiley; the juxtaposition of his sombre, sad, grey little character and that name whose mere glance brings a sense of happiness, only to be quenched by active cognition) seems to be worn out by inhabiting in this constant strain, and it has shown not in his physicality but also the shambles that is his life; the wife who he is obviously dearly fond of running into the arms of other men, the disaster of Control’s failed mission and the disgrace of falling from the top echelon to obscurity. But, the doggedness, the indefatigability and the quiet steel of his perseverance, not so much articulated in any way, rings sharp. The quiet resolution with a deep understanding of the rightness of his job, the determination despite the obvious unease with which he dug up the past and often into the painful recesses of his personal life. There’s something classically and perhaps mythically British about it; not flash, not romantic, not flamboyant or even heroic in the true sense of the word, but very admirable and very human. Perhaps the opposite of Hannah Arendt's formulation of the Banality of Evil in her work Eichmann in Jerusalem; a platitudinousness risen to the level of heroism.

The resolution of the web of deceit provides the reader with satisfying catharsis; that the inhuman life which one steeps oneself in during those years is worth it for the sake of all that’s good and noble. It is therefore an edict of right over wrong, though not so crass and never so simple and childish (is your system any better than mine?). Smiley is not a hero in the regular sense of the word; partly because the connotation and burden and absurdity of ‘heroism’ is rather silly and unreal. But more importantly I think his type of understated dedication is what really drives history. Not a man in shiny armour, but a quiet, reserved, shy, somewhat awkward man, who nevertheless knew the worth of what he was fighting for (though never explicitly stated) and never seek tribulation or reward, other than getting to the truth and doing his duty. For this very reason he is more heroic and has so much more verisimilitude. The ideal of the hero is worth having but growth makes one realise the shallowness of sanctification and appreciate the heroism of the plebeian. Like Victor Klempere said in his secret and potentially fatal diary during the Nazi era, ‘I shall bear witness, precise witness! This is my heroism.’ It is in this type of heroism that humanity must depend on for the safe keeping of all that is good, pure and decent.