THE DUD AVOCADO by Elaine Dundy

Here is a book about how we should all be grateful to the women who came before.  It tells the story of a young American woman on what is basically  a gap year in Paris in the 1930s (funded of course by family money, try not to feel too enraged).  It is just incredible what goes on.  People make her dance with them when she has told them no, they expect her to ‘know how to cook,’ some guy announces that:

All tourists are she

And she still falls in love with him.  Wtf.  Later we find out he was trying to traffic  her into sex work but she still has fond feelings for him (?).  I mean how did these girls get anything done?  The issues are plenty. 

The book is fun and insightful. Try this:

It’s amazing how right you can be about people you don’t know; it’s only the people you do know who confuse you

Or this, which I think is true about many people who begin, but do not finish, a career in the theatre:

The thing about him, though, was that he thought he was in the theater for Art, whereas he was really in it for laughs.

Apparently Dundy’s husband, theatre critic Kenneth Tynan, encouraged her to try  writing a novel, as he thought her letters good, but was then horrified when THE DUD AVOCADO was a bestseller and instructed her to never write again.  Meanwhile he was cheating on her left and right and spanking her though she was not into it.  She began her second novel immediately.

I mean I didn’t enjoy this book that much but I am just amazed and impressed this lady held it together for long enough to get it written. Truly earlier generations were fighting some battles. 

MEATY by Samantha Irby

I avoided Irby for a long time, having some impression that I was going to get a lot of self-important lecturing about everyone’s wokeness levels.  I have no idea why I thought this, and I was totally wrong.  I enjoyed her most recent book WOW, NO THANK YOU so much I immediately ordered her first one, MEATY.  It’s not quite as fun as the other, because I think she was herself much less happy.  This is the book of her rough twenties, the other of her much happier forties. 

I have been struggling to articulate for myself quite what is so appealing about these books. I think it’s partly that’s its very freeing to have someone be so honest about themselves.  I am not sure I need to know about her diarrhoea or about how she eats her dinner over the sink while masturbating or about how she sucks her thumb during sex, but it makes you feel like it’s possible to tell the actual truth about your own life without exploding. 

I think it’s also the almost perfect contemporariness of the tone.  I’ve never read anything quite like it.  For example, here is part of a cocktail recipe:

Mix everything together in a punch bowl, then drink.  And I feel you, I DON’T HAVE A PUNCH BOWL EITHER.  But I do have a set of those nesting mixing bowls, so what I like to do is wash it really well, to make sure all the cookie dough crumbs and dried cereal milk is out of it, and let it double as a vessel for the booze.

Like, what is that CAPS LOCK?  I love it. 

Side point, she refers to her largish under-chin area (she’s on the bigger side) as her meatbeard.  I am scarred and know this word will stay with me forever

THE MAN IN THE HIGH CASTLE by Philip K Dick

This book presents an alternate reality in which the Germans and Japanese won the second world war. It has some interesting parts: for example, it imagines the internal struggles after Hitler dies (who would it have been: Goebbels? Speer? The mind boggles); it imagines what the Nazis would have done to African people; it imagines what it would have been like if Japanese culture became American culture; and so on. Sounds like a good book, right? But actually it turned out kind of boring. It covers a bunch of characters who are doing a bunch of things, but you don’t really believe in any of them and they all seem kind of the same person.

While the book was dull, the Wikipedia entry on it was certainly not. Philip K Dick led a wild life. First off, there is the five wives. That is always a red flag. The third one (who he later involuntarily confined to a psychiatric institution, but never mind that), was the one who inspired this book, largely because he needed her to think he was working, so he needed her to hear him typing, so he started typing, and ended up with THE MAN IN THE HIGH CASTLE. He never made much money, and took a lot of speed, and then when he tried to get off speed didn’t go to NA or whatever like a normal person but entered a sort of cult (Syanon), and all this was before he started to have religious visions (triggered by light glinting off a stranger’s necklace). When he died he was buried under the tombstone pre-prepared for him 53 years before by his parents, who determined he should be buried next to his twin who died in infancy. None of the wives ojected. I mean: it all went on.

CROSSROADS by Jonathan Franzen

Okay: I am about ready to give it up for Jonathan Franzen, and concede he may indeed be America’s greatest living novelist.  Because this thing is LIT.

It tells the story of a nuclear family, over a period of about a year, from each of their perspectives (mom, dad, son, daughter, other son).  From pg1, I was in. We open in

. . . the nursing home in Hinsdale, where the mingling smells of holiday pine wreaths and geriatric feces reminded him of the Arizona high country latrines. .

MWAHAHAHA.  The father is a deputy minister at a Protestant church.  He feels a sad kinship with the “dusty creche steer,” and is conducting an awkward flirtation with a parishioner.  He is generally terrible at it, though he does get her to accept some vinyl records from him.

 “He was not so bad at being bad as to not know what sharing music signified.”

Later he finally manages to get it together with his parishioner.

With a sigh, she closed her eyes and put her hand between his legs.  Her shoulders relaxed as if feeling his penis made her sleep.  “Here we are.”

It might have been the most extraordinary moment of his life. 

The book is so incredibly well observed (‘that type of disinfectant unique to dentist’s office’ I mean god does he carry a notebook EVERYWHERE), so impressive in its creation of different points of view, so successful in concluding everyone’s arcs, I am just like DAMN

According to my blog, when I read a previous novel of his, FREEDOM, I was so overcome that I stopped on p38 to write a blog post about how much I already loved it.  This was back in 2011, and it’s probably a good thing  it was a while ago, because that book, like this, is a novel of a single nuclear family.  I’d probably be able to see more of the authors tricks and obssessions and so be less impressed. As it is, let me just say again, DAMN.

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

Here is a book by Karen and Georgia. I’ve never met either of them, but I feel like I know them. This is because I listen to their podcast MY FAVORITE MURDER every week.  It’s a true crime comedy podcast (don’t ask).  This is their spin-off book about their private lives.  Karen and Georgia moaned a lot in the podcast about how hard it was to write a book, and that does kind of show a bit.  They’ve added lists of stuff, a sure sign you are struggling to fill those pages. I was only surprised there were not recipes.  (In fact Georgia did try to add her dad’s bbq chicken , but then he revealed it was just whatever generic bbq sauce happened to be on sale)

Reading this book did make me realize how much MY FAVORITE MURDER’s magic sits not in either host, but in the relationship between the two.  There is some kind of special sparkle that makes those two add up to three or even four. I find it interesting when that happens, like it did for Simon & Garfunkel.  Of course leaving aside their special chemistry, it’s also true that we live in a lonely age, and are hungry for friendship, even if it is the friendship of other people. I suspect that’s a big part of why the podcast got to be so big.

The authors mention how when they met they had both coincidentally been reading DARING GREATLY by Brene Brown.  This is a book about the power of vulnerability.  They both say reading that book made them more open to new people (and thus each other), and to new projects (and thus MY FAVORITE MURDER, the project that took them from struggling to millionaires).    I also see how it translates into their show, which is often surprisingly open about all sorts of topics (mental health, pets, fat).  I had thought this was just ‘how they were,’ and its interesting to find how much it is actually a choice. 

BEAUTIFUL WORLD, WHERE ARE YOU by Sally Rooney

Regular readers know I love Rooney’s CONVERSATIONS WITH FRIENDS, which is gnaw-you-own-arm-off wonderful.  I didn’t love BEAUTIFUL WORLD as much, but then there is not much I do love as much.

BEAUTIFUL WORLD is a book about romantic relationships, and seems to have a lot of anxiety about the fact that it is about romantic relationships.  It seems like there is a concern that this is a non-serious topic to write about.  I mean I have that concern myself, but this is just because I am trapped in patriarchy like everyone else, and what women choose to write about has long been dismissed as unserious, unlike, for example, the rape-and-murder that men like to write about in airport thrillers.

The story focuses on a pair of female friends, who are living some distance apart.  It chronicles each of their relationships with their boyfriends, as well as their own friendship, which is largely conducted by email.  The emails are every alternate chapter, and are full of self-pity and trite criticism of ‘capitalism.’   For example, one character says she was in the local shop when suddenly she:

thought of all the rest of the human population – most of whom live in what you and I would consider abject poverty – . . . And this, this, is what all their work sustains!

Leaving aside the high drama, it’s just not true that most of humanity works to sustain the Western way of life.  I can think of a good billion Chinese people who have a few other things going on. Or try this:

. . . we’re living in a time of historical crisis, and this idea seems to be generally accepted by most of the population. 

Anytime someone tells me we are living in a particularly seminal moment of history I always mark them down on the moron list.  This is the over-privileged view of someone who has not lived through a war/recession/genocide.

I won’t even get into how mystified I am why these thirty-somethings are writing emails to each other.  Is this supposed to be historical fiction? Does anyone other than one’s parents write emails? 

Actually I enjoyed this book more than this makes it sound. It still sharp and heartfelt, and powerfully reminded me of the power and importance of human connection. I am not sure why I have bashed on so much

OUR SPOONS CAME FROM WOOLWORTHS by Barbara Comyns

This is a strangely inspirational book about failed painting careers, poverty and abortion. It tells the story of a young female art student who marries another art student. She gets pregnant and they are both horrified. Bizarrely, because it is the 1930s, or because he does not understand biology, the husband blames her. He refuses to take any responsibility for the baby, insisting he must focus on his art. The wife understands, because she too wants to be an artist. But instead she gets to do menial jobs for money. Eventually they split up and she ends up on the street with her baby. She manages to pull herself out of the situation by leaving London and getting a job as a cook.

Reading this summary you might think this is a depressing book. What is strange is that it is written in a light, comic tone, and can only be described as uplifting. For example, right near the beginning, speaking of her husband’s aunt, we suddenly get onto:

She even like my newts, and sometimes when we went to dinner there I took Great Warty in my pocket; he didn’t mind being carried about, and while I had dinner I gave him a swim in the water jug. 

Her what? Her newts? Or try this:

The book does not seem to be growing very large although I have got to Chapter Nine.  I think this is partly because there isn’t any conversation. I could fill pages like this:

“I am sure it is true,” said Phyllida.

“I cannot agree with you,” answered Norman.

“Oh, but I know I am right,” she replied.

. . That is the kind of stuff that appears in real people’s books.  I know this will never be a real book that business men in trains will read. . . . I wish I knew more about words.  Also I wish so much I had learnt my lessons at school.  I never did, and have found this such a disadvantage ever since.  All the same, I am going on writing this book even if business men scorn it.  

I looked up the author afterwards and found the book was indeed quite autobiographical. What filled me with huge joy was to find that her husband does not even have a Wikipedia page. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH. All that selfishness (sacrifice?) and apparently for nothing.

I am also really inspired by Comyns biography. It said she “worked in an advertising agency, a typewriter bureau, dealt in old cars and antique furniture, bred poodles, converted and let flats, and exhibited pictures.” It makes other author bios, involving lists of novels/essays/teaching posts seem maybe more ‘successful’ but somehow rather narrow and sad.

SH*T MY DAY SAYS by Justin Halpern

In this book I supported someone in monetizing his Twitter feed. I didn’t object. I’m always in favour of people other than Twitter making money off Twitter.

The author of this book got unexpectedly dumped, and so did what you get to do if you are not an immigrant: move back in with his parents. He was inspired to start a small Twitter account for his friends where he posted various things his dad said, and it went viral. Publishing deals followed. Meanwhile, in London, the Amazon algorithm noticed I had been buying lightly comic books, and here we are.

The book was funny, and I often laughed reading it. Most appealing, however, was the obvious love between father and son. The dad’s advice is blunt but caring.

“Sometimes life leaves a hundred-dollar bill on your dresser, and you don’t realize until later it’s because it fucked you.”

And:

“The baby will talk when he talks, relax. It ain’t like he knows the cure for cancer and just ain’t spitting it out.”

It’s a perfect mix of chuckles and heart. Well done Amazon algorithm, well done.

MARIANA BY Monica Dickens

First of all let’s try to come to terms with the fact that Dickens was only twenty-four when she wrote this novel. And it wasn’t even her first, but her second, the first having been a BESTSELLER.

I can’t comfort you with the reflection that it is not good, because it is really rather good. It’s a coming-of-age story that mostly mirrors Dickens’ own. The section on her childhood is particularly impressive. I love this:

Mary climbed into the neat little cattle-pen and pretended she was a horse, which meant standing quite still and feeling like a horse inside, without any outward pantomime

Her early adulthood is interesting too, especially her unsuccessful stint at drama school. I suspect many can relate to her bleak summary of what happened to those who did not give up on that particular dream early enough:

(They) battered out their youth against the doors of agents, did crowd work for films or sacrificed their so-called innocence for a walking-on part or chance in Cabaret.

There is a particularly wrenching scene where she realizes the boy she has had a crush on for years is not seriously interesting in her, but has just been enjoying her devotion. The quality of the book takes an abrupt nosedive when, in her early twenties, she meets the man she will marry, Sam. Dickens has these two characters ludicrously simpatico. Allegedly even when apart they wake at the same time, eat the same food at the same time, speak the same words and even hear the same songs (?). Clearly this is drivel. Also imagine anyone you know getting a new boyfriend and having this view about a night out with friends:

Mary was longing to get away with Sam and discuss them all. That was the only point now for her, of going to any party.

I can only assume that the first part of the book was based on her actual experience, and this last part is what she hoped real love would be like. I googled it and indeed she did not get married till her late thirties. I can only imagine her views evolved. On my side I observe people in love can often hardly agree on the same way to load the dishwasher, never mind have the same sleeping/eating/ghostly song (?) hearing schedule.

THE ANIMALS IN THAT COUNTRY by Laura Jean McKay

This book has an amazing sounding premise:

. . . a strange pandemic begins sweeping the country, its chief symptom that its victims begin to understand the language of animals. Many infected people lose their minds . . .

No one doesn’t wonder what their cat thinks of them, and I loved the idea of finding out. Unfortunately I sort of struggled with this book. What the animals have is say is stuff like this:

My front end

takes the food

quality.

Muzzle

for the Queen

(Yesterday).

I’m not sure I’m much the wiser. More than that though, I found the protagonist almost unbearably annoying. She lets her obviously infected son into their compound, and doesn’t feel any guilt about it. She loves her granddaughter, but in a creepily sentimental way. She contracts everyone’s names (‘Ange’ for Angela, etc). She is often described as ‘gulping’ her drinks. These are things I don’t like. It’s not super defensible, but okay. I maybe could have handled it, but then she rear-ends a truck full of factory farmed pigs. I couldn’t face hearing what they think of us, so I quit.