An Instance of the Fingerpost Mass Market Paperback – March 1, 1999

R. Royce was trying to cure the common cold. He remembered the stages in the process a person goes through from an obscure and all but obsolete book on biology, printed in 1950, that had been shelved in a corner bookcase in the living room. First contact: the micro-organism enters the human body. Incubation phase: the microbes find a warm, moist, dark place in the body and begin to multiply, exponentially. They begin to overwhelm the host. Sickness: the host becomes desperately ill. His body weakens considerably. He feels fatigued, lacks energy, and wants rest. He loses his appetite. He alternately sweats and has chills. His head pounds and his muscles ache. Recovery phase: his immune system begins to fight against the invading microbes. White blood cell production increases dramatically in his bloodstream. The blood cells produce phlegm, which gradually covers, overwhelms, and encapsulates the microbes, which have been steadily growing in numbers, rapidly expanding their territory, reproducing in his mouth, nose, and throat. Return to health: he can begin to breathe easier, his appetite returns, and he feels like getting out of bed again to greet the day and participate in normal daily activities. At first, he thought he had at home all the ingredients necessary which would bring about a quick, easy cure: steaming Camomile and lemon teas, chicken broth, rest, and faith. After three days with a runny nose, however, his swollen sinuses began to clog and his breathing became labored. He periodically blew out the slimy mucus from each of his nostrils into the bathroom sink, but one nostril or the other would invariably re-clog, and he would have to exhale warm air from his mouth to complete the respiration process in the most efficient manner possible. His eye-lids grew heavy; his vision, dim and blurry. He reminisced about friends from long ago. Whatever happened to Pete Bates, from middle-school days? Tall, skinny, shy kid who milled about the schoolyard with the rest before the bell sounded, and didn't have much to say that was very untypical, except that he thought he could fly. He always carried a bottle of "Formula 44" to prevent the flu in the pocket of his winter Parka. So, it would seem that he sometimes got carried away with visions of grandeur. One early morning, a crowd of kids pointed to the top of the school building and there he stood on the roof-top. Many in the crowd pointed fingers, and everyone looked skyward, amazed. A roar went up. Some of the school-kids shouted, "Show us you can fly, Master Bates!" Then, they began to chant, "Jump Pete jump." Fortunately, the unruly disturbance caught the attention of the school principal, who went topside and coaxed the delinquent back inside the building. The principal must have convinced his parents that the undisciplined boy would be an excellent candidate for the junior military academy located in the next town, because that was his last day in school, and that was how Pete finally cured his cold. The next morning, when Royce thought he might be getting a sore throat as a result of his illness, he drove to the local convenience store and picked up some lemon-lime soda and night-time cold medicine. According to the text book, some persons had resorted to the use of stimulants and depressants. The medicine would help him sleep better throughout the night, he believed. The down-side was he'd wake up in the middle of the night soaked in a cold sweat, his sheets and pillow cases cold and damp. He'd climb out of bed to change the sheets and pillow cases for dry linens, tossing the wet items in the washing machine. The next morning, he'd wake up in a cold sweat again, having slept on cold, damp sheets and pillow cases. So, he had to change the sheets and pillow cases a second time. He tossed the damp ones into the washer, and those from the washer to the dryer. He reflected on the fact that you sort of wanted to generate a little body heat, especially in the middle of winter. All he felt was cold and damp. A few days later, he developed a harsh cough and began to get a sore throat, partially from the cold-causing microbes and partially from the cold medicine, which tended to dry out the mucus membranes of his esophagus. He began to cough repeatedly, trying with all his might, attempting to expel the perceived irritant on the inside wall of his throat. Because of the persistent cough he'd developed, Royce returned to the store for another 12-pack of lemon-lime sodas and a large package of winter-green flavored mint candies, something that might soothe his irritated throat condition. Candy-coating his esophagus with mint and lemon-lime flavored syrups seemed to work fairly well and his throat began to feel much better. Particularly so, after numerous rigorous bouts of gargling with warm salt-water, during the night. Gradually, over time, he began to breath easier and he was able to rest much more completely. His muscles were still sore and his joints ached, but he was becoming more alert. And he had finally felt the fever that had flamed up within him, warm, burning, inviting--like the wood-fire in a cozy, rustic cabin fireplace made of rocks, stacked and cemented together all the way to the chimney top. The next morning, he cooked an omelet for breakfast and had a cup of coffee. He was slowly but surely returning to normal. "What doesn't kill you will make you stronger," he recollected someone having recently said in the office, as he began to gather his wits about him. Thus, the "physician" healed himself after all. "Feed a cold; starve a fever," he proclaimed loudly in defiance! Only it wasn't just the common cold he was trying to cure. A week prior, he'd been afflicted by the deadly tse-tse fly toxin on his way to the exiting airport. It caught him unaware, as if a poisoned dart had just sailed by him while he was strolling along the sidewalk, window-shopping in the fashion merchandise district. As he paused to turn the corner, the sharp needle-point barely nicked him, scratching the exposed skin on back of his neck. He swatted too late. The fly zipped through the air, ultimately striking a wooden-framed bulletin board made of cork dead center among the routinely posted government notices and the list of active, precautionary safety measures found on the advertising kiosk. It felt like a mosquito bite. Harmless enough. Maybe. He didn't stop to read the writing on the wall. One might wonder if the pocketful of raw, rare gemstones he had concealed on his person were so precious as to risk his very life in the process of couriering them across remote international borders, not his own, for an undisclosed employer, funded by a temporary employment agency. Lucrative, but not much said about job security. But then again, it beat flipping veggie burgers for a living at the delicatessen back home by a long shot. The historical novel, An Instance of the Fingerpost, written by Iain Pears, published in 1998 proved to be just the kind of realistic reading material--food for thought, you could sink your teeth into. The story seems plausible enough. An Italian medical student goes to London, England in the middle 17th century and tries to learn enough and earn the necessary credentials to become a doctor. He feels the calling to heal the sick and improve the lives and health of everyone he meets. A noble ambition. He has a crude idea of man's mortality and his short life-span, but does the best he can under the circumstances. Not everyone he tries to heal gets the cure. Not every physician is perfectly gifted, suitable, or perfectly qualified for the job. Basically, he meets a number of other "quacks," quite unlike himself, and a variety of other quirky characters. The profession becomes frustrating to him, but he perseveres. He learns useful home remedies from practitioners of local folk medicine. He gains accolades from the renowned colleges of medicine. And he gets an inside look at the politics of medical health care. In fact, the politics of health care applies just as much today as it did 350 years ago in sunny old England, even though today's doctors are better trained and we've all enjoyed the benefits and miracles of modern-day medicine. Nonetheless, you might want to think twice about having your appendix, tonsils, gall bladder, etc removed, simply because you have experienced slight discomfort and moderate inflammation, and because you have the necessary health insurance to cover the expense. Likewise you might want to consider a second opinion or multiple opinions before you consent to and give preference to one form of medical treatment over another. For all you know the anomaly revealed might be completely harmless and you have several more decades to live, before you die of natural causes. We know that we all have to go some time, but we'd prefer to prolong the inevitable. Likewise, you might not want to overdo it with the tremendous volume and kinds of available medication. You don't want to abuse pharmaceuticals, and you certainly don't want to become addicted to them. At some point in time, you might want to ask yourself if you really need the pain pills, sedatives, anti-anxiety medication, etc. Rehab, detox, "cold turkey," "drying-out," and "going on the wagon" are alternatives. Is the stress and pressure from your job killing you? Does your type-A personality dramatically increase your chances for a heart-attack? My philosophy is "run like hell!" Save up and try something different. Change your life-style. Quit. Sell out. Move. Get a hobby. Relax. Go where people live longer, sensible lives, without the hustle and bustle. Retire, even if you have to live more modestly in moderation. What sense does it make rampaging through life like a raging bull right up until the very moment he meets the point of the sword? Unless, of course, you really love your work. In the immortal words of a former co-worker, "Law enforcement is my life!" But then again, she resigned after a few short years and married a doctor. Sensible girl. The gentle people love her so.

I didn't hate this book. That is to say, it had its entertaining moments. This is a book to read with a package of post-it notes and a pen, markers of different colors, maybe a wall chart or two.For the most part, the writing was interesting and clever, the characters seemed real.Until you see them from the other narrator's eyes, and the view is so disparate you can't know whom to believe.Four men write this tale. They all disdain each other. They dabble in medicine, torture, desception, pompous religiosity, homosexuality, and above all, ego-mania to the point of delusions. These men individually (under some motivation we aren't given, but possibly just to prove the others are all boobs) write their stories, all vaguely about an old mathematician named Grove who was a nice guy and didn't deserve to die but hey, he was old and nice guys finish last. And somebody killed him but maybe he did it himself or maybe it was a mistake...De Cola is a talented charlatan practicing medicine on unwitting people while looking for a lawyer to fix his father's business problems. He experiments on Sarah and her mother, transfusing blood. The philosophical and religious mores of the day, mixed with the gruesome aspects of medical study when fresh cadavers were the student's modern equivalent of a new laptop, was fascinating and seemed real.Prestcott is either a delusional lunatic or a gentleman living in a fine estate. He was once in prison but escaped and all is forgiven. His father lost their estate but the son is now rich. Reasons are given. His tale is entertaining. His story seems believable too, but has little to do with De Cola's except that somehow they both are involved in getting the same people knifed to death. I could be confused--I stopped using the post-it notes by then.The third, who is not identified until 300 pages into his narrative, Willis, goes into a novel-length dissertation on how smart he is, how pious -which includes cruelty, strictness, corporal punishment- as a master, how in love with his male protege', how moral, how condescending, how grand, how learned, the glory of God himself in human form . . . again... quoting Scriptures all the way, and tells almost nothing. He is all about deciphering codes. Don't know why. The codes have nothing to do with the story. But he's the only one who is as good as he, and there are codes to be broken and books to be stolen, and they have nothing to do with Grove who is long dead by that time, but he just generally hates everyone so that's okay.The last narrator, Wood, tells a fantastic tale of loving Sarah, Grove's maid, who confesses murdering the old man and is hung for it but "magically" survives. And that's good because he is smitten with her incredible beauty, even though the other men describe her as evil incarnate or childishly malnourished and rude.Now that I have come to the end, I still don't know what happened. Was the mystery about who killed Grove or how he died? And who did? Was the mystery about Sarah? Did she do it, or did someone else? or did Grove commit suicide in order to frame her for his death? All these inane questions recurred with no answer. Sarah was either a shrew or a witch or a sexy vixen, magically surviving hanging and whisked away on a boat bound for America from which she disappeared like a vapor off the deck.I looked forward with great anticipation to this novel. I am truly sorry if even in rating it I have messed up details but this was SO HARD TO FOLLOW I felt lost at every turn.At times the writing was spellbinding. At times droll and dry. There is much said and little done, and the arrows of plot point in five directions at once with no real conclusion. Who killed Grove? Why did anyone kill Grove? or was he the victim of medical bungling? You'll never know. What is Prestcott's lost fortune doing in this story? If he's crazy, there's no sign of it in his writing, for it's a lucid as the others and less boring. What purpose did Willis' narrative serve in the story or the whole novel? Why didn't someone put some arsenic in HIS tea? Here, I'll get the kettle for you...Is Wood the real lunatic thinking he'd slipped his dream girl from a noose and saved her only to have her evaporate (please!) ?I may, after I recover from reading this a first time, read it again, just to see if I'm totally off base. There must be something I'm missing.UPDATE, 1/6/2013: TIME passes as it does and I returned to this book wondering how I could have misunderstood what was supposed to be such a gold-ribbon novel. Drumroll, please. It's not me, it's the book. It really has no solid plot, no connection, and no direction.

Lovely new copy of book! Arrived safe and sound! Thanks!

As anyone can deduce from the variety of reviews posted here, this is a challenging book, for a variety of reasons, not least the length and the 4 separate narrators recording their different versions of the same events. One narrator is a foreigner, Italian, who gives an outsider's view of Oxford, its inhabitants, the university, food and science; the second is an obsessive madman; the third an Oxford mathematician and cryptologist; and the fourth an antiquary. None are disinterested observers; some have access to the other accounts; nothing we learn can be taken as the total truth. Other reviewers here are aptly reminded of Umberto Eco, and the genre of novel that keeps the reader turning and puzzling out anomalies, clues and trying to tease out what for them might be consider a revelatory truth. By the end many but not all questions are answered, motivations illuminated, and accounts corroborated or challenged. I've read it twice now, and I'm still not sure I can recall all the twists of some of the plots. What shone for me however was the fascinating depth of research that permeated the dialogue and lives of the characters- mixing real and imagined- in the year 1663. So much insight into the complicated threads post civil war, before the better known publicly dramatic years of plague & fire : the dangerous difficult tightropes of mainstream and marginalised, the remnants of old hostilities and the need to make your way in a new world of academia, politics, the Church or commerce. Scientific, theological and moral debate and actions veer between primitive superstition and cutting edge. Intellectual and material property laws and morals. The expectations of students, tutors, en and women. And at the centre, without her own narrative voice, walks the character of Sarah Blundy - articulate, intelligent and raising questions for readers through her treatment by society and specific males. This is a book that rewards careful reading even as you want to gallop through. Pears is a very clever and talented writer.

I bought this because I received another of the author's words, Arcadia, as a gift and it had been the first addictive, fully engrossing page-turner I had read in a while - but that's a different review. As Arcadia was one of those books that leave you bereft when they finish, I sought out more from the same author and ordered An Instance of the Fingerpost. Whereas the previous novel had me addicted and looking for excuses to get out of work, parenting, etc to sneak of and get a quick fix from page 1, this one ensnared me more slowly at first but the dizzyingly multi-layered tale grew to obsession levels again. The reader is engaged with trying to pin down the truth, or the nearest thing to the truth, through four different tellings of the same events by the four different narrators - and full clarity always seems just one step ahead of you. At first you seem to be reading one novel, then another until bit by bit comprehension dawns in all it's glory. In both of the novels I have read, the author embraces huge concepts and runs with them making both intellectually stimulating and right rollicking good reads.A huge added bonus was the fascinating insight and historical detail into a period of British history that I knew woefully little of - I can't imagine a more engrossing, enjoyable way of incidentally receiving such a good lesson in the restoration. Well, I came on here to find my third Iain Pears novel and if it turns out to be a fraction as good as the first two I'm in for another trear.

I found this hard work. Although the idea was interesting, that 4 accounts of the same events would tell completely different stories, the 4 characters were so difficult to like and the stories so long and convoluted that I wanted to just get to the end already!Add to that that the characters were pretty much caricatures of misogyny, corruption and self-serving and if the novel showed a great deal of research into the burgeoning sciences of medicine and philosophy and the politics of the time it showed very little original thought about people. And the woman at the centre of the mystery didn't convince me either. But then she was only seen through the eyes of four very self centred men so I suppose I shouldn't have expected more.

It’s an intriguing book, written n three segments. I have to say I struggled with the list of characters initially, not too much difference In personalities with some. However, I’m very glad I persevered ! I like books that are a bit ‘different’. The writing is superb and certainly holds your attention. I was sorry to finish it but after a break I’ll give the author another go.I can recommend this to anyone who likes a ‘meatier’ novel than most.

I can't remember exactly what drew me to this book but I did not realise it was nearly 700 pages. The concept of four different people giving their versions of The same story was new to me. The fact that it takes place during the mid 1600s and told in the language of that time can be difficult reading combined with the pomposity of some of the characters. It is too long and laborious.For the first time I employed speed reading to just get to the end.Interesting but cannot recommend.Sorry Mr Pears