In reading the first chapter's of Angela Carter's Nights at the Circus, I found a jarring difference in the voice of the narrator to the past books we've read in the class. There isn't the stale, clinical observations of John Ballard nor the frenetic, scattered stream of conscious of John Self. We are not being told the story by a singular character, but by someone outside of the story and outside the time the story is being told, and in this way we are situated in a peculiar way almost in the seat of Walser himself, or more likely in the body of some fly on the wall in Fevvers' stuffy dressing room.
What really struck me about the story so far is its altogether literary-ness - if that makes any sense. Automatically, we're thrust into a rather long and winding story, both "enchanted and disgusted" by Fevvers, stuck in our chairs until she's finished telling her tale. And in the frame of that tale are even more tales, and suddenly her journey takes on a mythic, almost fairy tale like slant.
As her story deepens, there is for the reader and for Walser a sense of pervading unreality. What the hell is going on? You're wrapped up in questions, many of which Walser asks himself throughout the story - in a bid to make sense of what's being told to him. There are the mysteries that are presented by the very existence of Fevvers. There are mysteries that beg practical answers like - does Fevvers have a navel, if she was hatched from an egg? And why should she have arms when wings are in fact arms? etc. But There is also the eerie feeling that stems from the story seeming to just go on and on - highlighted in this passage on page 53 of the novel, Chapter 3:
"On the soundless air of night came the ripple of Big Ben. Lizzie slammed the door as she came back to put the kettle on the hissing stove; the mauve and orange flames dipped and swayed. Big Ben concluded the run-up, struck - and went on striking. Walser relapsed on the sofa, dislodging not only a slithering mass of silken underthings but also the concealed layer of pamphlets and newspapers that lay beneath them. Muttering apologies, he bundled together the musky garments, but Lizzie, chattering with rage, snatched the papers from him and stuffed them away in the corner cupboard. Odd, that - that she did not want him to examine her old newspaper. But, odder still - Big Ben had once again struck midnight. The time outside still corresponded to that registered by the stopped gilt clock, inside. Inside and outside matched exactly, but both were badly wrong. H'm."
In this passage, we have what is one of the most (seemingly) real things in the world, Time, juxtaposed with a strange sense for both the reader and Walser that time has suddenly stopped or become unreal, taking on the quality of the cherished clock Fevvers managed to save from the Nelson Academy. This is not the first time throughout the night that, outside, Big Ben chimes. And on each occasion, Fevvers and Lizzie seem to be totally uncaring of this strange anomaly, even insisting that Walser is wrong and that, each time is the first time it Big Ben is striking midnight.
By creating this uncertainty of time, Carter creates an uncertainty in the story Fevvers is telling - an uncertainty of whether she is or is not telling the truth. By each chime of the clock, Walser finds himself falling deeper and deeper into the tale. At the first chime, he is greatly disturbed, but by this passage, while it gives him a moment's pause, all he can muster in response to the strange occurrence is a "H'm." Since time in the real world is bending to accomodate Fevvers' tale by mimicking the clock in her story, it seems as if to lend validity to her story or, if anything, at least make whether it is true or not less of an issue. It is the telling of it that is the thing.