“Don’t, listen, don’t for one eyeball-searing second imagine this is going to be an analysis of the artist in angst,” says Vesper. “We’re the ones–Bonnie, Faith, Ilse, Hilda–who are the interesting cases, the fringe dwellers in the suburbs of the great man’s genius–any great man.”
The Acolyte is a tragicomedy of those who live on the fringes of art. Paul Vesper gives up his career as an engineer to live with Holberg, a blind musician, in his glass-box mountain retreat, helping him transcribe his music and becoming what he calls “a grocer’s gardener’s stud boy” in a situation complicated by Holberg’s wife, his wife’s sister and someone’s child. Torn between pity for his “great man” and anger at his treatment of others, between admiration for his genius and resentment at his misuse of it, and with growing self-disgust at his own position, Vesper finally breaks out in a violent act of rebellion.
Is a man like Paul Vesper exploited by the artist, or does he need the artist to give meaning to his existence? Does Holberg devour his satellites or do they draw life from him? Apostleship is built for folly and Vesper’s gradual submission and final mutiny are drawn with wit and penetration, humour and sadness.
Like Thea Astley’s previous novels, The Acolyte is brilliantly written, with an acute sensitivity to both the anguish and absurdity of life.
