LUSTER by Raven Leilani

This started off pretty well, being a story of a young black woman who gets involved with an older white man who is in an open marriage. Here she is, making out with him:

For a moment, I’m sure I’m going to cry, which is not unusual, because I cry often and everywhere, and most especially because of this one Olive Garden commercial.  I excuse myself and run to the bathroom, where I look in the mirror and reassure myself that there are bigger things than the moment I am in.  Gerrymandering.  Genealogy conglomerates selling my cheek swabs to the state. 

She loses her job and then in a not at all believable turn of events is invited by the wife to live with them. We then get into that beloved territory of recent novels, which is the aimless narrator. She hangs about not really looking for a job, doing weird aimless things like taking photographs of their stuff. I gave up with about twenty pages left to go. The book like the narrator where both going nowhere.

DEVOTION by Madeline Stevens

DEVOTION is okay for a beach read, which is lucky, because I read it on a beach. It tells the story of a nanny who becomes obsessed with her employer. It is another of what seems to be an entire new genre on income inequality. Eventually it all blows up when the employer is extremely intoxicated, and her husband and the nanny force her into a threesome. I got the impression we were supposed to think this was some kind of crescendo of obsession, but mostly I just thought it was rape. Like, check it out, you don’t get to have sex with someone who is too drunk to consent, no matter how obssessed you are or how rich they are.

THE BEAUTIFUL AND THE DAMNED BY F Scott Fitzgerald

I have not read this book for about thirty years, and it certainly has changed.  It tells the story of a married couple who spend a lot of money and have a lot of fun.  They claim this is because of some life philosophy they have about living for the day and damning tomorrow.  In fact, it is because they expect a large inheritance. I used to think this was wondefully romantic; now I just think it’s amazing how many philosophies you can come up with if you expect to inherit.

It begins to look as if they will not receive the inheritance, and they descend pretty quickly into drinking too much and cheating, having now boxed themselves into a corner.  Here is the husband, having made the mistake of looking at the alumni magazine of his university (always a mistake when you are feeling low):

He laid down the magazine and thought for a while about these diverse men. . . (In the past) he would as soon become a churchgoer because the prospect of immortality gratified him as he would have considered entering the leather business because the intensity of the competition would have kept him from unhappiness.  But at present he had no such delicate scruples.  This autumn, as his twenty-ninth year began, he was inclined to close his mind to many things, to avoid prying deeply into motives and first causes, and mostly to long passionately for security from the world and from himself. 

Then they sue, and get the inheritance after all; but by then they have already learnt some rough lessons about what happens when you damn tomorrow. I mean on the one hand I feel sorry for him but on the other hand BOO HOO I AM SO SORRY YOU ALMOST DIDN’T GET AN UNFAIR GODDAMN ADVANTAGE. 

LOVE IN THE BIG CITY by Sang Young Park

An interesting series of essays about attempting to be gay and bohemian in Seoul, covering roommates and menial jobs and heartbreak.  His first roommate, despite being female, is closest to being his soulmate.  Read this recipe for house-sharing bliss:

I was an expert at washing dishes spotlessly, and Jaehee’s courageous soul allowed her to swipe the shower drain clean of clogged hair. 

And

Like most people’s parents, (Jaehee’s parents) constantly nagged their children about propriety and how one should behave, but in their private lives joyfully indulged in affairs, excess religion, the stock market, or pyramid schemes.  I had a real parasitic streak in that as much as I hated my parents, I felt completely entitled to ever coin they gave me . . . Jaehee, however, cut off contact with her parents after their blowout and refused any form of financial support thereafter. She really did have the heart of a lioness.

He has (of course) a tough relationship with his mother, who is very involved, and very religious.  She dies slowly of a heart issue.  Enjoy this:

. . .  she asked the doctors not to anesthetize her because she wanted to participate in the pain of Jesus Christ, a declaration that (finally!) prompted her doctors to add some psychiatric treatment to her prescription . . .

That ‘(finally!)’ really made me laugh. 

It is not easy being gay and bohemian anywhere, but apparently especially not in South Korea.  This books paints a pretty homophobic, classist, and sexist society.  At one point, for example, everyone accepts that the author will get a job purely because all the other applicants are female.   It’s an interesting take on the traditional story of the artist vs the man.  Apparently the man in Seoul is really not kidding around.

TRAVEL LIGHT, MOVE FAST by Alexandra Fuller

I guess we’ve all got a lot to say about our parents, but this lady REALLY has a lot to say.  This is the third book of hers I’ve read, and it’s the third to mostly be about her parents.  Rather than them being a character in her story, I am starting to get the impression that she is a character in theirs.  They loom most exceedingly large over her life.

Her parents lived variously across southern Africa, but in her childhood largely in Zimbabwe.  There is much that is comic about them.  Her father reels at the revelation that a laptop might be expected to die after the first decade, regarding planned obsolescence as a scam (which indeed it probably is). 

And there they are on South African politics, an opinion I have heard before in Zim:

The Afrikaaners took it to far, the blacks are bolshie and you can’t blame them.  I find it very creepy, all of it.  Just look at that Oscar Pistorious.

And her mother after the war that gave birth to Zimbabwe:

I mean she was all of us, all of us Rhodesians; hurt, sore, surprised losers.  She’d vowed to fight to the death; and even if everyone else had now forgotten that vow, she’d meant it.  . . . She wept bitterly in private; drank bravely in public.  “Your mother has difficulty cutting her losses,” Dad had explained. 

It’s a book framed around the unexpected death of her father while on holiday in Budapest, but it’s very much a celebration of his life. I don’t know what all this author is working through, but I’m enjoying being a part of it

THE VIRGIN SUICIDES by Jeffrey Eugenides

I like Jeffrey Eugenides’ MIDDLESEX, and to a lesser degree THE MARRIAGE PLOT, so I was a bit surprised to be so underwhelmed by this one.  

On the surface it seems like it should be interesting, being the story of how five daughters in one family came to all commit suicide.  Somehow however, from this promising material, a very boring book is written. I think part of the problem is the attempt at formal inventiveness in the narrative voice.  The story is told by some undefined ‘we’ who are apparently the neighbourhood boys, who are apparently recounting this story many years later. I just found this dumb.  Also I didn’t really like the heavy emphasis on how inscrutable females are, that inevitably came with it.  No doubt that is what teenage boys really do feel but so does most of western literature, and so it is a bit SNORE.  Probably they had mental health issues or were being abused or something, like Jesus guys it’s not that complicated.  Anyway I did like this sex scene, so I’ll leave you with that.  Don’t say I never do anything for you:

Two beasts lived in the car, one above, snuffling and biting him, and one below, struggling to get out of its damp cage.  Validanlty he did what he could to feed them, placate them, but the sense of his insufficiency grew and after a few minute, with only the words “Gotta get back before bed check,” Lux left him, more dead than alive. 

IN A SUMMER SEASON by Elizabeth Taylor

Here is a story of a suburbia.  A middle-aged woman marries a much younger man after her first husband dies, and . . . Never mind the plot, because as the introduction tells us, the author is ‘bored by narrative. ‘

Usually this kind of thing is RED FLAG for me, but Taylor is such a fine writer she makes it work.  Try this, of the teenage son coming home late:

Tom walked up the drive, treading silently on the grass verge, let himself in quietly and crept upstairs.  The house was night-quiet.  They were all as fast asleep as innkeepers of an afternoon.  They dreamt their innocent, middle-aged dreams and rested their aging bones

And try this, on his mother’s thoughts when this same son rolls his eyes at her:

They condescend, Kat thought.  They behave like people who are trying hard not to be snobbish.. . They are appalled for us that we are middle aged.

Or this, on a son’s reaction to having to talk about his mother:

His fists seemed to be tightened in readiness, lest anyone should find her as absurd as he did . . .

It’s wonderful, sharply observed writing.  Particularly heartbreaking is our occasional insights into the mind of the family cook, who is really quite despairing on her life, but somehow carries on cooking.  Taylor uses the word ‘courageous’ about how she faces some potatoes in a way that made me want to tear up.

I got up in Wikipedia to try and figure out why a writer of this quality is not more famous.  I found no straightforward answer, but I think it is probably down to her being perceived as too mumsy.  She lived an almost incredibly bourgeouis life in the London suburbs, and I guess being the wife and mother of bankers is not as interesting as being an actual banker.  (Side bar, I am sure this was half the problem for Hilary Clinton too.  Fundamentally, people don’t want their mothers to succeed).  In any case, it is interesting to see about her process (thanks to the Atlantic for the information):

She said “I dislike much travel or change of environment and prefer the days … to come round almost the same, week after week.”. . . That steady rhythm allowed for her regular and admirable output—although she began to publish only when she was 34, wrote “slowly and without enjoyment, and think it all out when I am doing the ironing,” and regularly put her work aside to attend to her children and household (!), she produced 12 novels, four story collections, and one children’s book in 30 years

THE BEST OF ME by David Sedaris

Some writers create books. David Sedaris does this, but first he had to create a genre, in which his books could fit. I find this amazing. It puts him in the illustrious company of historical romance writer Georgette Heyer. (THOUGHT: Am I the first person ever to compare Sedaris and Heyer? I hope so. Let’s not google it though, becuase the inevitable outcome of that, is finding out you have nothing new to offer. FOLLOW-ON THOUGHT: Maybe this is why baby boomers are so insufferable, because they did not spend their youth finding out that every ‘great’ idea they had had already been had by somebody else)

THE BEST OF ME is a collection of what Sedaris thinks are his best pieces of writing. As I have read (I think) all of Sedaris, it was a re-read for me, but it was interesting to see this cut of what he thinks is good. Here he is in the introduction:

I’ll always be inclined towards my most recent work, if only because I’ve had less time to turn on it. When I first started writing essays they were about big, dramatic events, the sort you relate when you meet someone new and are trying to explain to them what made you the person you are. As I get older, I find myself writing about smaller and smaller things. As an exercise it’s much more difficult, and thus – for me anyway – much more rewarding.

I found this sort of interesting, becuase I am often struck by how much meat he manages to find in his one life, and I wonder where it comes from. Surely, so much of life is like grocery shopping and brushing your teeth, I would have thought by now he was down to the bits of the bird where there is mostly gristle. But still he keeps them coming.

He notes that the “pieces in this book – both fiction and nonfiction – are the sort I hoped to produce back when I first started writing, at the age of twenty. I didn’t know how to get from where I was then to where I am now, but who does?” I found this sort of inspirational. Imagine being able to say, this is what I wanted at twenty, and I have got it! Typically, in myexperience you don’t get it. Or if you do, the odds are you no longer want it.

WHAT I READ IN 2021

The blog tells me I read 67 books this year, one more than last year, and more than any year since 2011.  One reason I keep this blog is as a reminder not just of the books, but of what the books carry with them, which is memories of where they were read. PREP, first book of the year, was in a Zimbabwean garden. SHUGGIE BAIN was read in part at a London coffee shop when we were finally allowed outdoor dining again.  LEAVING CHEYENNE I bought in a tourist trap in South Dakota. ZINKY BOYS was the beach in Croatia. WOW, NO THANK YOU was a flight to Corfu.  MEATY was a five hour delay in Amsterdam airport. 

I did an unusually large number of re-reads of old and beloved friends (EARLY WORK, THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF NATHANIEL P, THE PURSUIT OF LOVE, and NOTHING TO SEE HERE).  I used to not re-read, but I do it increasingly. I think because I realize that there are not so many good ones out there in the world to be found.   I also read a larger amount of non-fiction and self-help (I can recommend FOUR THOUSAND WEEKS if you want to feel like blowing up your life).  Mostly it was fiction though, and it was a banner year.  I struggled to narrow the list of my favourties, so did not bother:

Every book SAMANTHA IRBY has written: (here, here, and here).  I put off this writer for some time, having the impression this was a book of essays was – as so many are – a book of thinly disguised lectures about gender/race/etc.  In fact they are a brilliantly sad and funny, and make you feel less alone in the world. 

UNDER THE SKIN by Michael Faber.  A story about aliens, but from the aliens’ perspective.  Let me tell you, whatever you think it is about, it is not about that.  Just drop everything and read immediately

OUR SPOONS CAME FROM WOOLWORTHS by Barbara Comyns.  A thinly disguised story of her own first marriage.  She wants to be an artist, and she marries an artist, but once a baby comes apparently what she wants doesn’t matter anymore.  A timeless story of being f*cked by gender roles, and very funny.  My one favourite part is that her husband, who to be fair to him, really SUFFERS for his art as he leaves his wife and child to starve, was not a success and is now totally forgotten.  My other favourite part is the amazing biography of the author on the first page, which covers her careers including poodle breeding, house selling, and painting, showing you do not need to sacrifice all to art to be an artist.

ALL MY CATS by Brohumil Hrabal.  I don’t know if I enjoyed it, but I thought about it a lot.  It’s one of the only books I’ve ever read about our relationship to our pets, and it investigates how difficult it is to keep boundaries around love

So far these are all backlist (and in Comyns case, almost a century old), but I also enjoyed the American and British blockbusters this year, CROSSROADS by Jonathan Franzen, and SHUGGIE BAIN by Douglas Stuart.  It’s fashionable to hate on Franzen, and I get the impulse, but I think we have to give it up: the man can write.

Here’s to having less time to read in 2022 because COVID will be OVER.

The list:

FOUR THOUSAND WEEKS by Oliver Burkeman

SOMETIMES I TRIP ON HOW HAPPY WE COULD BE by Nichole Perkins

MAYFLIES by Andrew O’Hagan

BABURNAMA by Babur trans. Annette Beveridge

DARING GREATLY by Brene Brown

SYLVESTER by Georgette Heyer

THE GRAND SOPHY by Georgette Heyer

THE PROMISE by Damon Galgut

WISE BLOOD by Flannery O’Connor

WE ARE NEVER MEETING IN REAL LIFE by Samantha Irby

MODERN ROMANCE by Aziz Ansari

ONE FAT ENGLISHMAN by Kingsley Amis

SWEET SORROW by David Nicholls

THE DUD AVOCADO by Elaine Dundy

MEATY by Samantha Irby

THE MAN IN THE HIGH CASTLE by Philip K Dick

CROSSROADS by Jonathan Franzen

STAY SEXY AND DON’T GET MURDERED by Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark

BEAUTIFUL WORLD, WHERE ARE YOU by Sally Rooney

OUR SPOONS CAME FROM WOOLWORTHS by Barbara Comyns

SH*T MY DAY SAYS by Justin Halpern

MARIANA BY Monica Dickens

THE ANIMALS IN THAT COUNTRY by Laura Jean McKay

FOREIGN AFFAIRS by Alison Lurie

WOW, NO THANK YOU by Samantha Irby

AND THEIR CHILDREN AFTER THEM by Nicolas Mathieu

SEGU by Maryse Conde

ZINKY BOYS by Svetlana Alexievich

LITTLE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE by Laura Ingalls Wilder

THE LYING LIFE OF ADULTS by Elena Ferrente

FALSE COLOURS by Georgette Heyer

THE PURSUIT OF LOVE by Nancy Mitford

WINTER IN THE BLOOD by James Welch

LEAVING CHEYENNE by Larry McMurtry

CROSSING SAFELY by Wallace Stegner

THE TRIALS OF RUMPOLE by John Mortimer

THE DEVIL IN THE FLESH by Raymond Radiguet

LOVE LETTERS by Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville-West

THE DRIVER’S SEAT by Muriel Spark

ALL MY CATS by Brohumil Hrabal

BATH TANGLE by Georgette Heyer

A BURNT-OUT CASE by Graham Greene

STRANGER IN THE SHOGUN’S CITY by Amy Stanley

SHOEDOG by Phil Knight

MOTHERHOOD by Deborah Orr

LITTLE EYES by Samantha Schweblin

UNDER THE SKIN by Michael Faber

COMING UP FOR AIR by George Orwell

THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF NATHANIEL P by Adelle Waldman

SHUGGIE BAIN by Douglas Stuart

THE ENDS OF THE EARTH by Abbie Greaves

THE SUBTLE ART OF NOT GIVING A F*CK by Mark Manson

STORM OF STEEL by Ernst Junger

NOTHING TO SEE HERE by Kevin Wilson

THE LAST PICTURE SHOW by Larry McMurtry

SOME TAME GAZELLE by Barbara Pym

EARLY WORK by Andrew Martin

AN OBEDIENT FATHER by Akhil Sharma

THE INVENTION OF NATURE by Andrea Wulf

THE HANDMAID’S TALE by Margaret Atwood

FIND ME by Andre Aciman

WAR AND TURPENTINE by Stefan Hertmans

DEPT OF SPECULATION by Jenny Offill

YOUR BEST YEAR YET by Jenny Ditzler

FAMILY LIFE by Akhil Sharma

MONOGAMY by Sue Miller

PREP by Curtis Sittenfeld

FOUR THOUSAND WEEKS by Oliver Burkeman

FOUR THOUSAND WEEKS is the average human life span, and this book deals with how it is we can accept this horrifying fact. 

It’s a book about time management, but not in the usual sense, of how you can fit more into the time you have.  Rather, he says what is important is to accept that you will never do everything, and learn to find that a relief, rather than a regret.  Here he is:

. . . philosophers from Ancient Greece to the present day have taken the brevity of life to be the defining problem of human existence: we’ve been granted the mental capacities to make almost infinitely ambitious plans, yet practically no time at all to put them into action. 

He thinks that our usual approach to time management, which is to be as productive as possible, is essentially us running away from the great truth that no matter how hard we work, or how much we want to, we will never get round to even a tiny fraction of everything that is possible for us.  It is much better, in his view, to accept this up front:

Since hard choices are unavoidable, what matters is learning to make them consciously, deciding what to focus on and what to neglect, rather then letting them get made by default – or deceiving yourself that, with enough hard work and the right time management tricks, you might not have to make them at all.

He advises us, to ‘pay ourselves first,’ that is, do what you want to do first, and be comfortable that other things will slip (e.g., spend the first hour of the day on whatever is your most important priority). Second, he advises us to limit our ‘to-do’s, so we don’t kid ourselves we can do everything; and third, and most challengingly, to avoid our ‘middling’ priorities.  If you made a list of 1 to 25 of your priorities, he thinks you should focus on numbers 1 to 5, and then carefully avoid numbers 6 to 25, because they are the really dangerous ones – the ‘second-best’ options that could end up eating up your life. 

There is clearly much to think about in this book, but it was this observation that really struck me:

One of the puzzling lessons I have learned is that, more often than not, I do not feel like doing most of the things that need doing.  I’m not just speaking about cleaning the toilet bowl or doing my tax returns.  I’m referring to those things I genuinely desire to accomplish. 

 In his view, a lot of what feels unpleasant – for example, boredom, or procrastination- comes from the fact that we do not like to encounter our finitude.  He thinks that often when we are struggling to concentrate on something we want to do, and turn to our phone, it is because it is deeply unpleasant to face up to the fact that this thing that matters a great deal to you is now real: like, it may not be as good as you hoped, it might fail, etc etc, and that is very painful. 

However:

If you plan to spend some of your four thousand weeks doing what matters most to you, then at some point you’re just going to have to start doing it. 

And:

You have to choose a few things, sacrifice everything else, and deal with the inevitable sense of loss that results

There you have it. This book certainly gave me plenty to think about, and unfortunately I seem to mostly think about it when I wake up at 3am.  Always a great time for considering your life choices. 

Side point, he refers to a fantastic time management book from 1908, called HOW TO LIVE YOUR LIFE ON TWENTY FOUR HOURS A DAY.  I loved this book in my early twenties. If you’d still like to take a go at fitting everything in, then I recommend it.