I read this book months ago, in high summer in a pool in Portugal, so my recollections of it are a little hazy, as indeed are my recollections of much of that vacation, a sort of haze of sunlight and figs and beer that comes in tiny bottles.

Alexandra Fuller is a Zimbabwean, somewhat older than myself, whose first book DON’T LETS GO TO THE DOGS TONIGHT was a memoir of her childhood in Zimbabwe. It was an enjoyable read, but very much, for me, a book of an earlier generation, with the dark shadow of the war upon it, and everybody going about being racist all the time. Her next book, SCRIBBLING THE CAT, was in the same vein, but her third THE LEGEND OF COLTON H BRYANT was set in Wyoming, where she now lives, which I thought was rather brave. It’s so hard for the immigrant to write anything other than immigrant fiction.

Her current book is COCKTAIL HOUR UNDER THE TREE OF FORGETFULNESS, and here she returns safely to Africa, telling her mother and father’s story, as they move from Kenya down to the south. It’s a sweet and touching story, though Fuller does not entirely avoid the temptation to exoticise her parents (easy to do when you have African parents).

Frankly, I can’t tell you too much else about it, but overall I have a sort of warm feel about the story, and so could recommend it, though the heat I feel might just be a sort of half memory of the Portuguese sun.

A TALE FOR THE TIME BEING is an interesting novel, but it would have been better if it hadn’t been trying quite so hard to be quite so interesting.

It weaves together three or four narrative voices, with the dominant ones being that of a Japanese teenager who is considering suicide and an American author who is depressed over her incomplete memoir. The voice of the Japanese girl is fresh and believable, and the author does a great job of keeping you hooked on her story as she thinks about killing herself. The voice of the author, on the other hand, is deadly dull. Try this:

“Their access was supplied through a 3G cellular network, but the large telecommunications corporation that provided their so-called service was notorious for selling more bandwidth than it could provide”

Wow. I would be bored if I heard this at a dinner party, never mind paid good money to read it in a novel. Worse yet, this character likes to give us detailed descriptions of her dreams. I mean, how does anyone attain adulthood without receiving this memo: TELLING PEOPLE ABOUT YOUR DREAMS IS NEVER, EVER, INTERESTING. NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR. THEY ONLY LISTEN OUT OF POLITENESS. The author even makes one long dream sequence (which rest assured I skipped) into a major plot point in the novel.

The novel hinges on the fact that the diary appears to be changing as the American woman reads it, which leads the author into an unfortunate musing on quantam theory, a field she is clearly unqualified to discuss, which means the novel rather peters out at the end.

A TALE FOR THE TEAM BEING is still worth reading however, for the Japanese girl’s story – it’s like a rather good novel hidden deep inside a rather bad one.

John Cheever is famous as a writer of short stories, and as I am not much of a fan of the short story, I have long avoided him. I am however increasingly desperate for new books to read, and having decided to start fishing around in the smaller fish of the twentieth century, have pulled him out. This is one of his few novels, and I’m glad I tried it.

The book is the sequel to a novel called THE WAPSHOT CHRONICLE, and tells the story of the grown up children of a family leading their adult lives. It’s mostly about relationships, and in true mid-twentieth century male writer fashion, all the marriages are prisons. To which I say, as to my friend Updike: JUST GET A DIVORCE ALREADY AND STOP WHINING

That said, it’s very well observed. Here’s a shopkeeper : “Now and then he patted his paunch – his pride, his friend, his solace, his margin for error”
And here’s a meditation on travel: “Travel has lost the attributes of privilege and fashion. We are no longer dealing with midnight sailings on three-stacked liners, twelve-day crossings, Vuitton trunks and the glittering lobbies of Grand Hotels. The travelers who board the jet at Orly carry paper bags and sleeping babies, and might be going home from a hard day’s work at the mill. We can have breakfast in Paris and be home, god willing, in time for dinner . . .”

It’s also often weirdly poetic: “What does the sea sound like? Lions mostly, manifest destiny, the dealing of some final card hand, the aces as big as headstones . . . . The sea grass dies, flies like a swallow on the wind and that angry looking tourist will make a lamp base out of the piece of driftwood he carries. The line of last night’s heavy sea is marked with malachite and amethyst, the beach is scored with hte same lines as the sky; one seemed to stand in some fulcrum of change, here was the barrier, here as the wave fell was the line between one life and another, but would any of this keep him from squealing for mercy when his time came?”

And here’s a obituary I would enjoy: “She had not only lived independently, she had seemed at times to have evolved her own culture”

Dave Eggers, of A HEARTBREAKING WORK OF STAGGERING GENIUS fame adores this book, and comments in the Introduction: “. . . it’s hard to believe a man wrote these sentences, and not some kind of freakish winged book-writing angel-beast or something”. I’m not sure I’d go that far, but I certainly enjoyed the novel.

This is a heartbreaking little novel. It’s a plain and direct little story that attempts to recount one man’s ordinary life in the context of some kind of meaningful framework. In other words, this book could never, ever, ever, win the Booker. Unlike the last book I read, MOON TIGER, which curiously had the same basic materials, STONER attempts to honour the human search of meaning, and suggest that not all such searches are doomed to failure, which obviously makes it profoundly unfashionable.

William Stoner, the title character, is born on a poor farm: “It was a lonely household, of which he was an only child, and it was bound together by the necessity of its toil. In the evenings the three of them sat in the small kitchen lighted by a single kerosene lamp, staring into the yellow flame; often during the hour or so between supper and bed, the only sound that could be heard was the weary movement of a body in a straight chair and the soft creak of a timber giving a little beneath the age of the house.”

He is sent by his father to the university, to study agriculture, but once there a sophomore survey course in English literature changes his life, and he decides to become a teacher. The book then follows him through his unremarkable career, his mildly unhappy marriage, and then on to retirement and death. When summarised like that, I appreciate it does not seem like much of a read. But somehow it is such a beautiful account of ordinary troubles, and ordinary courage to overcome them, that it oddly touching. It reminds you that your life is a good deal more than an account of its incidents. Here he is, on his deathbed: “A kind of joy came upon him, as if borne in on a summer breeze. He dimly recalled that he had been thinking of failure – as if it mattered. It seemed to him now that such thoughts were mean, unworthy of what his life had been.”

It was 2am by this point, and I was gently drizzling on the sofa, with my face lit up by the blue light of my Kindle. It wasn’t just that the story was SOsad/happy, but also because it was so beautifully and simply written. It’s so rare to read something utterly unpretentious. I rolled my eyes when I read in the introduction the statement: “The clarity of the prose is in itself an unadulterated joy,” but by the time I went to bed I was forced to admit it was an unadaultered joy. It kind of makes you sorry you read it, because you just know the next book will be a disappointment.

Here’s the author’s view on what the book is about, which I don’t quite agree with, but which is interesting none the less:

A lot of people who have read the novel think that Stoner had such a sad and bad life. I think he had a very good life. He had a better life than most people do, certainly. He was doing what he wanted to do, he had some feeling for what he was doing, he had some sense of the importance of the job he was doing. He was a witness to values that are important . . His job give him a particular kind of identity and made him what he was . . .It’s the love of the thing that’s essential. And if you love something, you’re going to understand it. . . . I think it all boils down to what I was trying to get at in STONER. You’ve got to keep the faith. The important thing is to keep the tradition going, because the tradition is civilisation

Well, here’s an eminently forgettable book. It’s a Booker winner, and it’s entirely in the mould of many Booker winners, ie: it’s ‘inventive’. It’s essentially a straightforward story of one woman’s life, but, life not being interesting enough for this kind of literature, the chronology is all mixed up, and a general air of ‘poetry’ hangs over the proceedings.

The central character has a strong (and for a few months apparently incestuous) relationship with her brother, and upon growing up becomes a journalist. She has a profound love affair with a man who dies in World War II in Egypt, and then goes on to get pregnant by a man she cares less for, but who becomes her long term partner and nemesis.

I’m sort of surprised by the vitriol of the above two paragraphs, as I don’t remember hating it so bad when I read it. Some books, such as DEATH OF AN ADVERSARY, I like more in retrospect, than at the time; this book apparently is the reverse. It was not all bad, presenting a kind of interesting picture of a life across decades, and the last paragraph was sort of lovely. Speaking of her hospital room, at the end: “It has the stillness of a place in which there are only inanimate objects: metal, wood, glass, plastic. No life. Something creaks: the involuntary sound of expansion and contraction. Beyond the window a car starts up, an aeroplane passes overhead. The world moves on. And beside the bed the radio gives the time signal and a voice starts to read the six o’clock news.”

But overall, I’ve practically already forgotten I ever read it.

This novel tells the story of a man, Harold Silver, whose younger brother is more successful then he: he has an impressive job, a nice wife, two children, etc etc. Then Harold’s brother has some kind of mental break, and intentionally causes a car accident in which a family dies. He is hospitalised,and Harold steps in to look after his family. Harold ends up having an affair with the wife, and one night while he is having sex with her the brother comes back home and, finding them together, beats the wife to death with a lamp. Thereafter the brother is jailed, and Harold continues to look after his children.

This early phase of the book is deeply annoying, with Harold a typical late 20th century literary anti-hero, aimless, useless, and totally disassociated from his life or any feelings about it. Try this: “Something is missing. I feel like I’ve fallen into a space between spaces, like I don’t really exist – I’m always out of context. Searching for clarity, I visit my mother” I mean honestly. And no points for guessing that his relationship with his mother is empty and meaningless.

He gets involved with the internet in some unhealthy ways, and we learn that AM Holmes is very likely over 50. Here is her old lady analysis of the internet : “There is a world out there, so new, so random, and disassociated that it puts us all in danger. We talk online, we ‘friend’ each other when we don’t know who we are really talking to – we fuck strangers. We mistake almost anything for a relationship, a community of sorts, and yet, when we are without our familiar, in our communiaties, we are clueless, we short-circuit and immediately dive back into the digitized version . . .” In fact, let’s google her age right now.

Yup. She’s 51. No surprises there.

However, the story picks up after Harold starts looking after the kids. He develops a sort of strange family made up of various misfits who live in his brother’s community, and the story becomes something of a meditation on finding family where ever you are. There’s a rather embarrassing trip to South Africa where Harold decides that all the white people are racist, whereas his black waiter is ‘a magical experience'(!?!) but this does not detract from the general improvement to the novel which occurs in the last half, making a rather sweet and – thank god – plot driven conclusion to what could have been a dire book.

But seriously, you guys, Hilary Mantel blows my mind. I can’t believe this is her first novel. I can’t believe she wrote it IN HER TWENTIES. First of all, obviously, because it’s such a good novel, but second of all, and mostly, because it’s so impressively ambitious. It’s a densely researched account of the main figures of the French Revolution from childhood through to the their deaths on the scaffold. She is 22 and living in Botswana, and she’s like: I know, for my first book, I’ll write a Trollope length novel that will required five years of research about a period that is extremely well known by the establishment. Frankly, this woman has BALLS. Presumably she also had an independent source of income. I feel inspired/depressed.

The book follows those titans of A-level history, Robespierre, Danton and Desmoullins from their provincial childhoods onwards. Interestingly, all these mean went to high school together. This makes a sort of intuitive sense to me, because what they did was truly bonkers, and its often been my view that there is nothing for bringing out the bonkers in you like your high school friends. It’s hard I think to grasp now how profoundly the French Revolution really was a revolution. They went from a king, to no king; from God, to the ‘Supreme Being,’ of rationality, from a class system, to butchers and bakers in Versailles. They even declared the equality of women. It’s interesting to see the mechanics of how this happened – the sheer physical courage that was required – but it’s even more interesting to see the kind of intellectual courage that was needed, to rip history up and start again, relying pretty much entirely on a bunch of kids you knew in high school. Danton is the tough leader, Desmoullins the PR guy, and Robespierre the pure heart of Revolutionary righteousness.

The French Revolution is a classic tale of how those who live by the guillotine also die by it, and the collapse of the Revolution, and of the friendships at its core, is perhaps the most gripping part of this book. As the Revolution wore on, and ordinary peoples’ lives (as is traditional with revolutions) did not improve, the Revolution began to devour itself. Revolutionaries accused other revolutionaries of not being sufficiently revolutionary, and with a guillotine just outside the front door, and in constant use, it was all too easy to send them for the chop. A fevered atmosphere, like that of seventeenth century witch trails developed. Robespierre eventually sends Danton and Desmoullins to their deaths; he follows them shortly after. It’s sad and satisfying.

As always with Mantel, the greatest joy does not lie so much in the narrative as it does in the narrative voice. Here are some favourites:

On a woman who used to be terribly academic, married an older man, and is now having an affair: “She could only conclude that she had been serious-minded as a girl, and had grown steadily more inclined to frivolity as the years passed.”

The same woman, on physical attractiveness: “She knew that for many women beauty was a matter of effort, a great exercise of patience and ingenuity. It required cunning and dedication, a curious honesty and absence of vanity. So, if not precisely a virtue, it might be called a merit”

On the weather: “an ominous December day, when iron-coloured clouds, pot-bellied with snow, grazed among the city’s roofs and chimneys.”

And, to conclude, some wise words from the boys’ headmaster. Perhaps I should tape them to my laptop: ” ‘Try to learn this truth, Maximilien,’ Father Herivaux said: ‘most people are lazy, and will take you at your own valuation. Make sure the valuation you put on yourself is high.'”

THE DEATH OF THE ADVERSARY is frequently described as a ‘lost classic’ of twentieth century fiction. Forgotten by the world, it was re-discovered when a well known translator was digging around in a bargain bin in an Austrian bookstore, and came across it, thinking it was something else. Now, in my experience, anything that needs to be ‘rediscovered’ always sets off alarm bells. Why is it lost? Who lost it? Somehow no ones ever been able to lose HAMLET.

THE DEATH OF THE ADVERSARY is a lightly autobiographical tale about the rise of Hitler. It tells the story of young Jewish man whose life is increasingly circumscribed by the growth of Nazism. Deeply annoyingly, the author never actually mentions Hitler by name, but instead refers to him as the ‘adversary’ in an awkwardly ‘poetic’ manner throughout. During and immediately after reading this book, I sort of hated it. I didn’t know how the New York Times could call it a ‘masterpiece’ and Hans Kielson a ‘genius.’ Weirdly though, as time has gone past, I find sections of the book remain absolutely clear in my memory. I find myself occasionally thinking of scenes, or characters, and wondering what book they’re from, and then realising: oh yah, it’s that Adversary thing I hated.

There’s a scene in which the main character meets some strangers, and one of them tells a long story about how he was sent with a bunch of young Nazis to defile a Jewish cemetery. At the time, I was kind of annoyed by this chapter long digression from a character we’ll never meet again. Now though, I find that the whole cemetery episode stays with me, for it’s sad depiction of how hard it was for the young Nazis to actually bring themselves to poop on graves, and knock over childrens’ tombstones. I also recall the main character’s account of his parents’ attempts to prepare for the coming of the Nazis, which involved packing backpacks with chocolate bars and hand cream, with no real idea why they might need them, as if they might soon be going camping.

Frankly I’m oddly conflicted. I hated it at the time, but I like it in retrospect. Sort of the reverse of a bad breakup.

Regular readers of this blog may recall the period in which I was not sleeping, and so I took to my Sedaris. I started with a large print copy of WHEN YOU ARE ENGULFED IN FLAMES, which someone gave me, and then moved through all sorts of other Sedaris, from SANTALAND DIARIES to DRESS YOUR FAMILY IN CORDUROY AND DENIM. I decided recently to try LET’S EXPLORE DIABETES WITH OWLS, his latest, and OH DEAR. On my Kindle, if you go MENU – VIEW NOTES AND MARKS – the damning statement comes up: THERE ARE NO NOTES OR MARKS. David! What’s gone wrong! The master of the witty phrase and killing insight! Here’s what I think. His other stories were about his drug addicted, waster youth, and his messed up family. They were thus charming and comforting. Now, what does he have to write about? How he’s a best selling novelist? How he stays in chic hotels? How he has a stable relationship? I don’t think there’s any writer that could turn that kind of happy success into interesting material. However, I have hope. If he keeps writing like this he won’t be successful for too much longer . .

Christopher Isherwood is an English novelist who lived in Berlin as Hitler was coming to power, and these two novels capture that uncertain time. They tell the story of the various friends of one Christopher Isherwood, though he assures us that just because he has given his own name to the first person narrator “readers are certainly not entitled to assume that its pages are purely autobiographical” . Whatevs, Christopher Isherwood.

The “Christopher Isherwood” of the novels is struggling with his writing, and you can tell this in Christopher Isherwood’s novels. MR NORRIS CHANGES TRAINS is a rather dull story about a friend of the author’s who turns out to be a minor con man, while GOODBYE TO BERLIN is a lovely, acutely observed portrait of a lost world. It’s sort of frightening one person could have written them in a short period of time, showing how unreliable is inspiration, how unsteady talent.

Here is the description of a rich man: “ He was vague, wistful, a bit lost; dimly anxious to have a good time and uncertain how to set about getting it. He seemed never to be quite sure whether he was really enjoying himself, whether what we were doing was really fun. He had constantly to be reassured”

Or, on one of his friends whose boyfriend was leaving: “The afternoon he came to say goodbye there was a positively surgical atmosphere in the flat, as though Sally were undergoing a dangerous operation” This Sally is Sally Bowles by the way, as GOODBYE TO BERLIN is the basis of the musical CABARET.

Or, on a deer: “the roe went bucketing over the earth with wild rigid jerks, like a grand piano bewitched”

Or on an old woman “She sat on the edge of her bed with the photographs of her children and grandchildren on the table beside her, like prizes she had won”
Okay, I’ll stop there, but suffice to say I liked this novel.

Curiously, pre-war Berlin reminded me constantly of today’s Harare. I suppose this is not so surprising, as both places had faced catacylismic inflation, though as yet this has not resulted in the wholesale execution of minorities, at least in the latter. Just as street signs disappeared in Harare, to be used as coffin handles, the leather arm rests disappeared from German trains, as they were sold for leather, and people were to be found dressed in train upholstery. Christopher’s landlady recalls the days she would have “slapped the face” of anyone who suggested she scrub her own floors, which she now does happily, which reminds me of many a Zimbabwean reduced further than they ever thought possible. How awful is this: “The whole district is like that: street leading into street of houses like shabby monumental safes crammed with the tarnished valuables and second-hand furniture of a bankrupt middle class”

And I don’t know if its just because I have taken 8 plane rides in the last fourteen days, but this part also struck a sad chord for me: “Where in another ten years, shall I be, myself? Certainly not here. How many seas and frontiers shall I have to cross to reach that distant day; how far shall I have to travel on foot, on horseback, by car, push-bike, aeroplane, steamer, train, lift, moving staircase and tram? How much money shall I need for that enormous journey? How much food must I gradually, wearily, consume on my way? How many shoes shall I wear out? How many thousands of cigarettes shall I smoke? . . .What an awful tasteless prospect!”