This is another book that I did a disservice to by waiting so long to review it, but I will try. I thought this was a beautiful book, and TARDIS like: its bigger on the inside. It covers more than its story seems to, at first glance; it hides a thoughtfulness and a sadness that runs like a strand through many of Hilton's war-touched books.
Random Harvest appears at first glance to be a mystery and a love story. Through the narration of Charles’ Rainier’s secretary and confidant, it tells Rainier’s story. The novel begins in the late 1930s, as the coming spectre of World War II loomed over the country, but soon cycles backwards, to 1919, when Rainier woke up with no memory of the previous two years of his life. He returned to his upper class family, returned the family business to success, and gave up his own scholarly dreams in favor of a life of business and politics, in which he gained prominence. It recounts his love story with a young woman and the dissolution of their engagement. Mrs. Rainier remains somewhat of an enigma; excellent at running his life, someone he appreciates but perhaps does not love. Through all, there is a thread of loss, surrounding those lost years that he could never quite regain. It is likely not much of a spoiler that he does finally remember, of course, and we learn what happened to him during those two years, which he spent as John Smith, and in the end how those new memories affect his life and identity as Charles Rainier.
I watched the movie before I realized it was a book by Hilton, and so was spoiled for an important part of the story. In some ways, it spoilt it for me, because I did not have the benefit of a literary device that worked quite well in the book. On the other hand, knowing this part of the story enriched my reading in some ways; it gave me a different perspective on the story and its development. Still, I would recommend that one read this book without being spoiled.
As a result, I’m somewhat limited in how much I can in my review. Much of the analysis of characters and writing is necessarily tied up with the storytelling, and too much discussion might give it away.
What I did want to mention is that Hilton does not get the credit he deserves, I think. He was popular in his day, but has not retained that popularity in subsequent years. Too sentimental, perhaps; too easy. Indeed, when I’ve been away from Hilton too long, I start to doubt my own reading of him and begin to underestimate him again. Random Harvest is a beautiful story, as is the film adaptation of it. But the novel also is much more than that. It is a story of loss; of people lost, of self lost; of culture lost. The inexorable march of war hangs over the novel, pulling England in, pulling the reader in, as someone who knows what must come. Hilton is sometimes accused of dealing too sentimentally with pre-war England, but I do not know if I agree. If anything, he was harsh about the country’s failings, though the harshness was hidden in a guise of his pleasant writing style. Rainier embodied the British ideal, perhaps, but Hilton did not reflect that ideal in the British society he conveyed.
Hilton is, at heart, a storyteller. His focus is on his characters and on the story he lays out for them. His writing is deft, accessible, and simple. He writes a good romance; he writes a good hero. And then, inserted in his narrative, will be these arresting moments of writing: an offhanded comment by the narrator or a character about something bigger. You ache with sadness and loss when you read these asides, with the knowledge that we have about what would come and the almost prescient knowledge that Hilton seemed to have about just how devastating the war would be (Hilton published this book in 1941; Germany had already advanced through much of Europe, but much more was yet to come in the war). The war played, in this book, a similar role that it played in Remains of the Day. Hilton has a way of writing that lets you slip over the fact that some of these characters, Rainier in particular, is profoundly damaged; and suddenly you must remember. Hilton does not beat you over the head with anything—not his morals, not his politics, not his themes. He tells his story, but there it is, between the lines and in these. Like Rainier, the book is straightforward, and dutiful, well-mannered, unpretentious. And there lurks, beneath a very likeable and highly readable veneer, something else, something meaningful.
Hilton is the kind of writer who sticks with you. You read and when you finish, you feel a bit quieter inside; and you find yourself returning to that feeling in the days subsequent; and you also find yourself returning to those moments where the novel got just a bit bigger than its story.