All Men are Liars

Alberto Manguel, translated by Miranda France
240pp Alma Books, £12.99
ISBN: 978-1-84688-109-1

There is something about this book in itself that suggests the imposter. Its cover is fake worn, the corners dog-eared; and the interior carries on the pose with an antique typeface and design. I half expected the pages to have the musty brown vapour of a dry old book shop.
We are expected to believe that the author is a liar. In fact, it’s easy to suspect that the true author is Miranda France, as, after the opening “Apologia” by “Alberto Manguel”, another contributor begins by declaring, “Albert Manguel is an asshole. Whatever he told you about Alejandro, I’ll bet my right arm it’s wrong, Terradillos..”
The story involves a tiny group of Argentinian expatriates keeping loosely together in 1970s Madrid; one of them, Alejandro Bevilacqua, has just died in a fall from his balcony the night before his book, which his compatriots insist is a literary masterpiece, is published.
The several accounts of the tragedy (in the form of letters to the unseen Terradillos) and the events leading to it differ as each writer knew Bevilacqua in separate ways and separate times, and each writer has peculiar, and untrustworthy, slants on what followed. But piece by piece, the man takes shape. He grew up in Argentina, fell in love with a puppeteer’s daughter, reluctantly began to write pulpy scripts for photo-comics and was imprisoned and tortured for reasons unknown to himself. One of the lovers he finds on his escape digs up his hidden or lost manuscript and insists on getting it published. Its title: “In Praise of Lying”. And her tale may be the one true account.

A letter from Bevilacqua’s one-time cellmate, El Chancho (“the Pig”) appears to suggest that he and not Bevilacqua was the author. On the other hand, there is the possibility that Bevilacqua wrote El Chancho’s letter.
If this sounds like a pain in the head, in fact it’s quite fascinating, partly because of the stream of warm, long-shadowed melancholy running through it. It’s really all about the unreliability of memory and perception as much as about reading itself. There are no signposts, and you will be a few pages into each revelation before you guess who it’s from; but I will say no more about that. No spoiler here.

For brain-food, the kind of book to hang on to, as you know it contains at least a couple more good meals, and you will be tempted to return for another look- just to make sure.

There is a list, at the back, of the author’s other works, which include “A History of Reading”. This is almost too good to be true!