I was drawn to Kingsley Amis's debut novel because it has been described as a "literary tour de force" by aficionados far cleverer than I. Moreover, tI was drawn to Kingsley Amis's debut novel because it has been described as a "literary tour de force" by aficionados far cleverer than I. Moreover, the blurb promised "A brilliantly and preposterously funny book". So, before I'd even touched the first page, I was shimmying in the manner of a Brazilian carnival dancer in hot anticipation of satirical excellence.
The book introduces us to an unworldly and hapless junior lecturer in his first year at a provincial university (the eponymous 'Lucky Jim', aka Jim Dixon) who rails against the pomposity of the university's old world order. My three bits of good news are that the entire piece is well crafted, that Amis's plainspoken writing style is not to be sneezed at, and that some of the humour did at least cause me to crack a smile. The bad news (for me at least) is that the humour didn't raise anything more than a smile because I'm a grizzled sourpuss who's been around the block innumerable times and no longer finds campus humour to be particularly funny. This novel was deemed shocking back in the day, so I guess I should have read it whilst I was still a long-haired English literature student, because then it might have seemed anarchic and risqué and might have titillated me more than it did.
Amis must have intended that his readers would side with Jim Dixon, that they might find him an endearing rebel and a well-intentioned vodka-swilling underdog. But my impression was that he needed to sort himself out and stop being such a pathetic loser.
Please note that most readers of this book found it completely hilarious and deliciously edgy, so it might be a very good idea to disregard all that I've said.
And there we have it: my nonconformist review of Lucky Jim. Devotees of this book are welcome to come after me with pitchforks and lanterns in hand, but I've already fled the village. : )...more
"The greatest disgrace of humankind is the failure of the strong to protect the weak. We don't need monsters. We are the monsters." —Jess Kidd, The"The greatest disgrace of humankind is the failure of the strong to protect the weak. We don't need monsters. We are the monsters." —Jess Kidd, The Night Ship
Ahoy there, me hearties! Arrr! Any landlubber who knows me knows that this swashbuckler is a huge fan of Jess Kidd's figurative writing and that I have lovingly devoured each of her previous delights. So, with my mainsail hoisted, I set off for the Dutch East Indies with a sextant in one hand and Cap'n Kidd's book in the other.
Inspired by real events (the sinking of a Dutch merchant ship, The Batavia off the coast of Australia in 1628), the story unfolded slowly … knowingly … teasingly … deliciously. "Someone polish my barnacles!" I shouted. "This has five stars written all over it!" The story is told across two timelines: In 1628, Mayken, a nonconformist girl, finds herself on a ship where dark folklore and omens gather like clouds. In 1989, Gil, a nonconformist youngster, finds himself on a haunted fishermen's island off the coast of Australia.
To begin with, this was a "shiver me timbers and bite your fingers off" kind of book. It was foreshadowed and back shadowed up to its briny armpits and I was loving every bit of it! With echoes of Moby Dick, Mutiny on the Bounty and The Creature from the Black Lagoon thrown in for good measure, I was all hands on deck, keen to see which unutterable curiosities lay beyond the horizon.
Alas, despite its resplendent start, the book ran aground towards the end. The promise of unimaginable wonders and a nightmarish sea monster never materialised and the story just fizzled out like a damp squid squib. I envisaged a gargantuan sea monster darkening the entire horizon and spreading across the sky; I imagined the carved figureheads on the ship's bow coming to life. I wanted Kidd to go large on my helping of magical realism, but it never materialised
Because I loved where it was going before everything capsized into dullness, and because I'm a fan of Jess Kidd's poetic prose, I'm still going to award it four stars. But her debut novel, Himself, is far, far better, in my humble opinion.
My nautical star-rating system. ***** "Ship-shape and Bristol fashion." **** "Land ahoy!" *** "Aye, aye, Cap'n!" ** "Walk the plank, you scurvy dog!" * "Abandon ship!"...more
"That which issues from the heart alone will bend the hearts of others to your own." —Goethe
An angel, who was once known to Francis of Assisi, and "That which issues from the heart alone will bend the hearts of others to your own." —Goethe
An angel, who was once known to Francis of Assisi, and who once posed for Leonardo da Vinci, floats down to a young girl's open window one night, enchanted by the magical notes she was able to conjure from the keys of her piano. Centuries ago, the angel's loneliness had driven him into the arms and beds of Florentine women whose husbands were off fighting wars or exploring oceans. The vanity and rampant promiscuity of this very famous angel brought about his fall from grace and only the reformation of humanity can secure his redemption. Mary, the child prodigy, is reclusive and autistic - a girl who goes unnoticed until she puts her fingers to the piano. And lo and behold, her incredible music has the power to rejuvenate the angel, both physically and transcendentally. He sees her special gift as his passport to redemption and strikes a Faustian bargain: her global stardom for his divine salvation. Unfortunately for Mary (in a purely metaphorical sense), the angel is possibly Mephistopheles and Faust all rolled into one!
This transportive book reads like a modern-day fable with glittering light and dark shadows flickering across its fast-moving pages. Wendy Waters is a new author to me and I found her poetic prose to be both illusory and beguiling. This line, a nifty piece of assonance, would have had Dylan Thomas raising his glass of ale to the author: "The slap-slurp of wavelets in the cove." And that's not the sum of her wordplay by any means, there are many more beautiful lines in the book.
The dynamic between Mary and her guardian angel is a joy to behold: him, capricious and manipulative; her, trusting and principled. And the reader is never quite sure of the long-term outcome of their precarious pact.
A thousand years on the wing can do strange things to an angel's psyche and this one's main problem is that he perhaps has too many human weaknesses of his own to be able to save all of humankind.
I'm a fussy bugger, as many of you will know, but this was a great read from start to finish. Waters has a unique voice and there's a majestic musicality to her prose.
In summary, 'Catch the Moon, Mary' sings out with sorrow and exultation and will be richly remembered by all who have read it!...more
When Jerome, a boarder at an English prep school, is summoned to his housemaster's room, nothing could have prepared him for the terrible news that awWhen Jerome, a boarder at an English prep school, is summoned to his housemaster's room, nothing could have prepared him for the terrible news that awaited him.
Fans of satirical British humour à la Derek and Clive (Peter Cook and Dudley Moore), and Monty Python will enjoy the absurdity of Jerome's terrible news.
This is from a collection of short stories titled May We Borrow Your Husband? and is an extremely short piece of flash fiction that can be finished in the blink of an eye. It's free to read HERE...more
Thirty years in the making, this mélange of short stories and one-act plays was an entertaining ride!
New York author, Betsy Robinson, has suffered forThirty years in the making, this mélange of short stories and one-act plays was an entertaining ride!
New York author, Betsy Robinson, has suffered for her art; she's been there, done it, and has bought a multiplicity of T-shirts. Therefore it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to imagine that this bittersweet anthology was viewed through the prism of her own life experiences. There is pathos aplenty here: independent ladies, young and old, navigating life's obstacles without any support from anyone. It's all keenly observed: journeys of self-discovery; affairs of the mind; missed opportunities and a host of unrealised dreams… The visible brushstrokes of human imperfections are part of this author's art; she champions the underdog without romanticising them and never condescends. To counterbalance the poignancy, Robinson ensures that there is always an undercurrent of wry humour. Her writing is sharp, the dialogue hip and sassy. It is also laugh-out-loud funny.
For example; Leslie, a seventeen-year-old virgin narrates: I hid my face in my hands. At least she hadn't said I was a virgin. "She's a virgin!" boomed Robin.
The immediacy of that proclamation, though unconscionable, did actually make me chuckle!
Robinson has such a keen eye for incidental details – the ones that have you nodding your head at how well-observed they are. And I heartily approve of the whimsical footnotes she drops into the narrative… He took the napkin out of my hand and kissed it – my hand, that is.
This talented author is also a celebrated playwright and finishes the book with a collection of her plays. The one that lingered in my mind long after I'd finished reading was Darleen Dances, a tragicomic monologue that, for some reason, put me in mind of Sondheim's Send in the Clowns (love that song). Darleen, she of the 'New Joisey' accent, tries to cement her legacy by dancing her way into the Guinness Book of Records, because in a few days she is going to have her ovaries removed. The poignancy of this scene was further amplified by finding out that Betsy actually performed the monologue in her thirties. That got to me.
Betsy Robinson is an extraordinary lady; an accomplished writer and performer who rails against inanity and insincerity. Her characters are quietly heroic and on top of everything she has a terrific sense of humour. So go read her books. I'm a fan!...more
"Mother love stamps the foreheads of boys with a stigma that repels the friendship of buddies." —Milan Kundera, Life is Elsewhere
From the day he wa"Mother love stamps the foreheads of boys with a stigma that repels the friendship of buddies." —Milan Kundera, Life is Elsewhere
From the day he was born, Czechoslovakian baby, Jaromil, is spoon-fed poetry and spoilt rotten by his coddling mother. So it's no surprise that the boy becomes brattish and ostentatious, incurring the enmity of his peers. And each time it rained, his mother would wait for him at the school gates with a big umbrella, while his schoolmates waded barefoot through puddles, their shoes slung over shoulders.
Into adulthood, our vainglorious poet maintains his overblown sense of importance, imagining himself an artist of greater eminence than he actually is. As Wharton would say, he is the reflection of a candle in a mirror, rather than the candle itself. One senses that Milan Kundera was poking fun at some (or just one) of his literary confrères. I imagined he was getting something off his chest, annoyed that lesser-talented writers were getting all the praise.
It is said that Kundera has done for his native Czechoslovakia what Gabriel García Márquez did for Latin America. Well, that might be so; he does have an allegorical writing style and also shares Márquez's fondness for the absurd but, for me, he lacks the lyrical wordplay of the Colombian maestro. I dimly remember my wife venerating Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being many years ago, so she's definitely a fan.
The book was really good, but not really great. It didn't grab me by the lapels and kiss me full on the lips. I was frustrated by the author's restraint – in all probability instilled in him during a childhood of communist oppression. I did however like Kundera's pithy observations, his scampish irreverence and his understated humour....more
Ahoy there, me hearties! All hands on deck! Cap'n Kevin here, and I've been reading John Boyne's Mutiny on the Bounty, so I have! Arrrrh!
Now then, althoAhoy there, me hearties! All hands on deck! Cap'n Kevin here, and I've been reading John Boyne's Mutiny on the Bounty, so I have! Arrrrh!
Now then, although I revere Boyne's flamboyant writing, this was not one of his best, in my humble opinion.
Our story begins with a scene straight out of a Dickens novel: Artful Dodger-esque street urchin, John Jacob Turnstile, knows that money doesn't grow on trees and therefore needs to pick a pocket or two. Yess! This is bloomin' luvverly, thought I, breaking into a rousing chorus of ♬Consider Yourself♬ from Oliver! Needless to say, Turnstile (truly a lovable rogue) is caught red-handed and ends up in the long arms of the law. To avoid a harsh jail sentence he is offered a working position on HMS Bounty and finds himself valet to none other than Captain William Bligh. Naturally, and without delay, I spliced my mainbrace with a tot of rum and hoisted my mainsail. "Come on, John Boyne, you lovable landlubber!" I bellowed into the salty wind. "Enthral me with a dazzling escapade on the very highest of seas!"
Sadly, it wasn't to be. What ensued was a boys'-own adventure that remained far too frisky for my liking (and I like frisky). Boyne plays fast and loose with the language of the day, slipping into modern-day vernacular with alacrity and depicting Tahitian natives as having such a perfect command of the English language that I wondered if they'd enrolled on one of those Rosetta Stone language courses. Example (native girl to Turnstile): "You employ a man to live with horses?" : )
Anyone familiar with my reviews will know that I'm a huge fan of John Boyne's work. Consequently, I fully expected this book to rattle my crow's nest and shiver my timbers. Although extremely excited by its Dickensian beginning, the story didn't move through the gears and I wasn't at any point imbued with a sense of trepidation. In summary, it was a rollicking good read that needed a bit of a rethink.
Almost my entire life, I have been magnetically drawn to Indian literature, from Riki-Tikki-Tavi through to Midnight’s Children; so this one leapt froAlmost my entire life, I have been magnetically drawn to Indian literature, from Riki-Tikki-Tavi through to Midnight’s Children; so this one leapt from a shelf and into my hands without me having any say in the matter. And it soon became abundantly clear that Chaudhuri has writerly magic at his fingertips; his prose is wonderfully poetic and each incidental detail is lovingly observed. Yet the story itself is languorous and moves without any discernible purpose. On top of that, even I, the Sultan of Similes, thinks he should have kept his trigger-happy simile gun holstered for longer periods.
In summary, the book was beautifully written, but it dragged indolently like a Calcutta heatwave. D’oh! Someone please take my simile gun from me before I shoot myself in the foot!
"Sloppy people should not be allowed to have pets, and certainly not birds who would never choose to live in such conditions. Have you ever seen a "Sloppy people should not be allowed to have pets, and certainly not birds who would never choose to live in such conditions. Have you ever seen a sloppy forest?" —Zelda McFigg
This winsome-yet-poignant story, a testament to one woman’s truth, traverses recent decades and had me rooting for our eponymous heroine from the get-go. The lady in question is binge-eating, animal-loving New York English professor, Zelda McFigg. She stands four-feet-eleven, weighs in at two hundred and thirty-seven pounds and is (reluctantly) a middle-aged virgin. Because of her corpulence, male suitors are not exactly queueing up at Zelda’s door and she feels that the likelihood of sexual congress is but a fanciful pipe dream. Therefore, the written word becomes her burning passion; punctuation superseding penetration.
In McFigg, author Betsy Robinson has created a champion for our time. The archetypal underdog whose haphazard nobility would usually go unnoticed and unappreciated. Zelda is as self-deprecating as she is determined; as caring as she is resourceful and as fatalistic as she is idealistic. This is a story about compassion and understanding; a tale of unrequited love and one woman’s struggle to remain optimistic in a cynical world. Robinson writes with aplomb and possesses a literary intelligence that is sadly missing in any number of much-vaunted modern bestsellers (if only ‘Eleanor Oliphant’ had been written this well). The book is packed with metaphor and symbolism, which pleased me no end, and Zelda’s sabotaged school production of Grimm’s The Frog Prince was comedy gold.
I enjoyed being in McFigg's company almost as much as she enjoys a private evening of binge-eating and flatulence. So here’s to you, Zelda! Clink! In the words of Don McLean, this world was never meant for someone as beautiful as you....more
"I think ladies rather love cocky gentlemen." —Wendy
This is an additional scene to the Peter Pan story, written by Barrie himself. Peter seeks out "I think ladies rather love cocky gentlemen." —Wendy
This is an additional scene to the Peter Pan story, written by Barrie himself. Peter seeks out Wendy several years later but is disappointed to find that she's now a married housewife and all grown up. Infused with symbolism and metaphor, Barrie has tried to square a circle by adding some adult gravitas, but the scene was pulled from the stage production that it was intended for.
Thanks to Petra for the internet link to this ten-minute read: Petra's review
"No man is free of his own history." —Anita Brookner, Latecomers.
Two Jewish boys, Thomas Hartmann and Thomas Fibich, strangers to each other, but b"No man is free of his own history." —Anita Brookner, Latecomers.
Two Jewish boys, Thomas Hartmann and Thomas Fibich, strangers to each other, but both refugees from Nazi Germany, are billeted in an English school where they form an unbreakable bond. The book is essentially an insightful portrayal of their friendship, lives, marriages and unswerving loyalty to each other, forged in the horror of their shared experiences.
Into middle age, Hartmann (he of the beautifully-cut hair, expensive suit and manicured nails), is depicted as a hedonist, his raison d'être being the pursuit of life's simple pleasures. Fibich, on the other hand, is rather more uncertain and abstains from self-indulgence due to the survivor guilt that gnaws away at his being. Other than the common denominator of their troubled background, the two men have nothing in common, yet their being together brings them an unexpressed comfort.
Brookner was an author in total control of her craft and most modern-day writers couldn't hope to rival the elegant clarity of her prose. Fact. But here's the thing… Although it would be remiss of me to award this insightful novel anything less than five stars, I also wouldn't break into a gallop to recommend it. I view Anita Brookner's work as I do Alan Hollinghurst's; their storytelling doesn't hold a candle to their peerless writing. In truth, the main characters lead unremarkable lives and nothing exciting or beguiling happens in the entire book! : (
Brookner was a self-possessed, perceptive writer and this introspective story conclusively showcases her subtle wit and keen powers of observation. Her sophisticated prose, as said, is indisputably a thing of beauty to be admired and appreciated. But those who prefer their books to take them on an uncertain-yet-absorbing journey might wish to give it a swerve....more
I was convinced to read this gentle coming-of-age story by an inundation of five-star reviews posted by wonderful Goodreads friends. I would like the aI was convinced to read this gentle coming-of-age story by an inundation of five-star reviews posted by wonderful Goodreads friends. I would like the aforementioned friends to remain as such, so I'll get my main gripe out of the way and then move onto the good bits. : )
THE BAD BITS Repetition of the word 'and': >Thin and angry and blind and lost and shut up behind< >trustworthy and loyal and thrifty and brave and clean and reverent< >Forster's terns and black terns and great blue herons and egrets and bald eagles and warblers and other birds so ordinary and profuse<
Then there’s this little beauty: >And I turned back and entered the shadow of the sanctuary still smiling and suffered the glaring condemnation of the congregation and sat through the long service in which Albert Griswold held forth in his impromptu and interminable sermon about the need to impress godly values on the youth of the day and when it was over I walked back to the house and found Jake upstairs in our room and I apologized.<
Holy bad editing, Batman! Eight 'ands' and not a comma in sight! Is the use of commas expressly forbidden in Minnesota?
These are just a few examples. I had to stop highlighting any others (there were several), as it was spoiling my enjoyment of the story.
THE GOOD NEWS Clumsy writing/editing and run-on sentences notwithstanding, the story is a pleasant, inoffensive read and much of Krueger's prose is beautifully poetic. There is a strong narrative perspective and the author has a clear voice. I felt that there was a Sunday afternoon, black and white movie atmosphere to the read; a 'To Kill a Mockingbird'-meets-'Stand by Me' vibe. It flows slowly and gently, like a lazy river, wonderfully depicting how children can often see things that adults miss because they have inquiring minds. My favourite character was Jake, the younger brother who has a stutter. Because he is often uncommunicative, he listens keenly and possesses intuition beyond his years. I also warmed to Gus, who's an honourable, stand-up guy.
OVERVIEW I prefer my books to come bounding in with some grit and pizzazz. There were no 'Omigod!' moments in this read and it was far too wholesome for my liking.
Please note that my inconsequential opinion is very much the minority one. This book has charmed almost everyone who has read it, so you can treat my review with a great deal of scepticism.
"It would be best for all of us if the Germans shoot you dead on sight." —Tristan Sadler’s father.
God, I appreciate you, John Boyne; with your head"It would be best for all of us if the Germans shoot you dead on sight." —Tristan Sadler’s father.
God, I appreciate you, John Boyne; with your head as smooth as a baby's bottom, your sparkling pixie eyes and your creative bloody genius. You were my go-to author when I hit a run of lamentable reads and you didn't let me down, you wonderful man.
The story begins in 1919, post-WWI England, in my own city of Norwich (I don't actually own it, I just live here). Tristan Sadler is the custodian of letters that were sent to his wartime buddy, Will Bancroft, by Bancroft's sister, Marian.
Told in alternating time periods, we learn of the men's kinship, forged in the tyranny of army training. Truths are implied, rather than divulged, allowing the reader to anticipate what is to follow. In fact, Boyne uses the 'show and not tell' technique to great effect for much of the story. Revelations are drip-fed as slowly as coffee through a Gaggia machine; themes of repressed homosexuality, unrequited love, betrayal, and an army's pack mentality are tossed into the bear pit of war. Boyne's signature dish is a serving of flawed main character. Tristan is one such character: as stubborn as a mule; doesn't think outside the box; is ruled by his heart; is petulant and jealous; is sometimes brave, yet sometimes cowardly. Oh, it's all here, folks: the foul, sludgy, shitty, rat-infested, murderous horror of the trenches and the complexities of human relationships in an era when anything more than a handshake between men would have elicited feelings of revulsion. This mini-epic held my interest throughout. It was thought-provoking, anger-inducing and at times searingly heart-breaking. And prepare yourselves for one devastating moment… Gasp. So cataclysmically moving ... please, please... NO-OOO!!!
John Boyne doesn't do tedium. He writes gutsy, emotive books that you miss when you're away from them. And the ending was befitting, revelatory and clever.
Three cheers for John Boyne and his absorbing storytelling! Hip, hip......more
Propaganda is a monologue that is not looking for an answer, but an echo." —W. H. Auden
I feel duped. This overhyped book was advertised thus: "A litPropaganda is a monologue that is not looking for an answer, but an echo." —W. H. Auden
I feel duped. This overhyped book was advertised thus: "A literary read ... dark and gripping ... a shocking twist ending!"
To amuse myself, I was going to type my review in the truncated style in which the book was written (at times it more resembled an eye chart than a piece of literature), but Mark Monday has beaten me to the punch. : ( Mark Monday's review I was expecting a literary tour de force: a book that would have me purring over its erudite prose as it dragged me into its diabolical depths. Alas, it was as thrilling as last year's Penguin-Counting Competition in Antartica.
And as for the 'shock twist', (view spoiler)[I assumed 'something' to be the case early on - and anticipated a far juicier twist to come. Alas, the 'thing' that I'd already taken for granted WAS the twist! (hide spoiler)] *sigh*
"If I hadn't seen such riches I could live with being poor." —From the song Sit Down, by James.
Set in rural Ireland, this very short story is spoken"If I hadn't seen such riches I could live with being poor." —From the song Sit Down, by James.
Set in rural Ireland, this very short story is spoken in the first-person narrative by a dirt-poor tinker’s daughter whose anonymity throughout serves to emphasise her incidental existence. The girl's struggling mother, who gives birth as frequently as a hen lays eggs, has another on the way, so leaves the child in the care of the Kinsellas - farming relatives whom the kid has never met. It swiftly becomes clear that our young narrator is unused to home comforts; even a hot bath is alien to her. The Kinsellas (themselves bereft of a child) are only too happy to lavish their unsentimental brand of love upon their menial charge.
Much is intimated but left unsaid by the author. Keegan expects her readers to fill in the gaps and draw their own conclusions. The girl is damaged but her wretched life has at least taught her to observe and adapt. Cautiously, she begins to blossom in her bright new world of hot baths and unbidden kindness. Slowly but surely our child-in-limbo dares to become the flower that grows through a crack in a pavement. The prose is deliberately sparse, which I didn't mind as it perfectly suited the gritty subject matter. In an almost surreal fashion, the characters ghost around each other, amping up the overall sense of detachment and fear of commitment (put me in mind of Bruce Willis's solitary interaction with humans in The Sixth Sense).
Although I'm not usually a fan of a bare-bones narrative, there is clear evidence here of the author's confident penmanship. It's an intelligent piece, mostly because of the details that are kept from us, and which loom large in our imagination.
I won't be giving anything away by saying that the girl's conflicting loyalties are vividly captured in a poignant, almost cinematic, final scene.
Not the best book I'll read this year, but an achingly sad and evocative capturing of a moment in time that requires the reader to work in tandem with the author....more
. Well, I've mentioned before how farcical it is that Goodreads invites authors to rate their own work. It's clearly open to abuse and I don't approve . Well, I've mentioned before how farcical it is that Goodreads invites authors to rate their own work. It's clearly open to abuse and I don't approve of it one bit! A chap, of my acquaintance, who knows a thing or two about books, said that mine was possibly the worst thing he'd ever read. I ignored him and awarded it five juicy stars. So, thank you, Goodreads! : )...more
"Something will have gone out of us as a people if we ever let the remaining wilderness be destroyed; if we permit the last virgin forests to be tu"Something will have gone out of us as a people if we ever let the remaining wilderness be destroyed; if we permit the last virgin forests to be turned into comic books and plastic cigarette cases…" —Wallace Stegner
As with A Gentleman in Moscow and The Heart's Invisible Furies, the inescapable popularity of this book on Goodreads was the white flash of a rabbit's tail that first caught my eye. Then as I dipped into the lavish reviews, it became the godlike voice that boomed at me through thunder clouds: "Do thyself a favour, mortal, and REEEAD THIS BOOOOK!" it resounded. So, that’s exactly what I did. (I would just like to add at this stage that a plethora of five-star reviews isn't always a reliable indicator of a book's calibre).
The story spans several decades and is told by genial culture vulture, Larry Morgan, a writer who marries during the Great Depression; a man prepared to suffer for his art so long as he has his wonderful wife, Sally, by his side. He remarks that it was beautiful to be young and hard up if you had the right wife. There is a 'let's get it all out in the open' honesty to Stegner's writing. His direction though is steered by optimism. This is an urbane version of Steinbeck: An erudite, glass-half-full Steinbeck. He is highbrow yet humble, scholarly yet folksy. And as if his elegant no-nonsense prose wasn’t enough, he proceeds to tick almost all my literary boxes by gilding it with some wonderful imagery (cattle grazing in the distance are described as being "tiny as aphids on a leaf") Brilliant! Back of the net, Stegner!
In a scene reminiscent of an episode of Frasier, Larry and his wife are beguiled by like-minded aesthetes, the Langs, who invite them to their fancy schmantzy dinner party. The foursome become lifetime friends and the thrust of the story is as much about them as it is the Morgans. Their very human dynamics will ring many readers' bells because this semi-autobiographical tale gives us the sense of being allowed to pry into the highs and lows of people’s personal lives over a period of several decades. Despite his literary success, Larry is often embarrassed at being able to enjoy a comparatively comfortable lifestyle without ever needing to roll up his sleeves and commit to a 'proper' job (his father was a farmer). He also recognises that there is more to life than the tinsel of literary praise (so true!).
This was my first read by this astonishingly gifted author, and it shan’t be my last. Stegner was clearly at one with nature and a charming aside about Achilles the Tortoise immediately reminded me of dear old Gerald Durrell. Oh, and the women in this book are given equal billing to the men, which is always a good thing in my view.
Because this human story was capably written and wonderfully realised, it didn't need any flash bang wallop or bells and whistles. It's ostensibly a book where a seasoned author has taken his time and allowed his love of words to drive the narrative....more
Now I don't read Booker Prize-winning author Alan Hollinghurst for his storytelling. In truth, the lyrical beauty of his flawless writing almost negatNow I don't read Booker Prize-winning author Alan Hollinghurst for his storytelling. In truth, the lyrical beauty of his flawless writing almost negates the need for a story. So my five-star rating is solely for his penmanship (though he doesn't employ synonyms for the word "said". The repetition of "he said/she said" dialogue tags is hard to ignore). Alas, the story, such as it is, drags itself along like a beached turtle. This ambitious (and lengthy) novel is rather difficult to describe; an English upper-class/middle-class love triangle with a smattering of homoerotica thrown in – a Brideshead-meets-Atonement hybrid, but without a plot. I felt as if I was witnessing an evolution, rather than anything resembling a story. So, in truth, it was tedious. The author, like Ian McEwan, is undeniably one of Britain's finest writers and, as is true of McEwan, it's his elegant prose that steals the show. Hollinghurst is an artist in command of his craft but the whole, unfortunately, was less than the sum of its parts and if I were to rate the actual story, it would only merit a measly two stars.
Still, Hollinghurst is a highly gifted writer. Most authors out there would hate to have him peering over their shoulders while they’re tapping at a keyboard, so who am I to award him anything less than five lustrous stars?
Nonexistent story ... two stars Top-tier prose .... five stars Writing wins!...more
"Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere." —Albert Einstein
Small-town teen, Cathy Wray, finds herself in the family way. (I"Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere." —Albert Einstein
Small-town teen, Cathy Wray, finds herself in the family way. (I'm a poet, yet didn't know it). She is also desperate to escape her parents, who want her pregnancy kept secret and the baby given up for adoption. But then a serendipitous moment occurs; a highlighted ad in a newspaper’s situations vacant column: a position at a toymakers’ store, Papa John's Emporium, in London. As if guided by a deity, Cathy hightails it to the capital with a swollen belly and a runaway's dream of motherhood. She discovers the joint to be every bit as magical as she'd hoped; a place where saluting tin soldiers rub shoulders with eager Russian dolls, and where a pyramid of ballerinas stand en pointe, hoping to be bought. The emporium is out of step with the outside world and the toys therein burst wonderfully to life in the imagination of customers, and readers, alike. To make the toys work, their creators, Emil and Kaspar, retain a child's perspective and I was lapping it up - a cynical adult once more flying the magic carpet of his childhood, or Robert Loggia dancing on a giant piano keyboard with Tom Hanks.
The book was subtly magical and so beautifully written.
In fact, up until the 40% mark, I was already declaring it to be my best read, thus far, in 2018.
Sadly though, like a toy bear that has lost much of its stuffing, the story began to sag in the middle. The character development required fresh batteries and the slow pace of the story would have benefitted from a new winding mechanism. This began as an epic tale of sibling rivalry; two brothers competing for their father’s (view spoiler)[(and Cathy’s) (hide spoiler)] affections in a Legends of the Fall/Twelfth Night kind-of-way but, by the end, it had morphed into a Willy Wonka/Chitty Chitty Bang Bang piece of nonsense! Such a shame, as it was initially so-o good, and promised much.
It’s only Dinsdale's exquisite prose that has stopped me from slinging this novel into three-star jail!...more
