Tag: fiction

THE TRIALS OF RUMPOLE by John Mortimer

Here is a jolly and old-fashioned comic novel about a London barrister. It’s set in the early twentieth century, and we find not much has changed since then. An inter-city train is back then, as today, “a journey about as costly as a trip across the Atlantic,” while the summer sales on Oxford street are “a scene of carnage and rapine in which no amount of gold would have persuaded Rumpole to participate.”

The book covers a number of his cases, but it is not really the legal drama that is of interest, so much as the fun narrative voice. Here he is, for example, on his boarding school:

a wind-blasted penal colony on the Norfolk coast, where thirteen-year-olds fought for the radiators and tried to hide the lumpy porridge in letters from home

Perfect holiday reading. Do yourself a favour and google John Mortimer so you can enjoy his picture on Wikipedia. You can just smell the cigarette smoke coming off the screen. Impressively, he wrote all his novels while also having a long career at the bar. (Same for Trollope, and I often think of his comment: “All the success of my life I owe to the disciple of early hours”). In interesting trivia he married twice, both times to women named Penelope, and his father went blind after ‘hitting his head on the door frame of a London taxi’ (?).

THE DEVIL IN THE FLESH by Raymond Radiguet

This guy has an affair with a married woman when he is 15; writes a book about it at 17; and is dead by 20. Now this is what I call living. That said, I am grateful for the vaccination against Typhoid.

This lightly fictionalized story caused a scandal on publication because the husband being cheated on is away from home because he is serving in the frontlines of the First World War.

The woman is 19, and she and the author have an affair of high passion and higher risk. He goes to visit her to talk about literature (a gossamer thin excuse). Here we are:

She liked going to sleep in front of the fire with her hair unpinned. Or rather I thought she was asleep. In fact, her sleep was only an excuse to put her arms around my neck.

They end up making out, and eventually, after she gives him a bit of help, having a lot of sex. However, they know their love is doomed. Not because she is married, but because she is apparently too old for him:

In fifteen years life would still be just beginning for me, and women of the age that Marthe was now would be in love with me. . . . I was too well aware of the attractions of youth not to realize that I would leave Marthe when her youth was beginning to desert her and mine was still at its height

Truly, we have no idea how long an uphill battle feminism has had to fight in the twentieth century. Meanwhile he has some other interests. Try this on for an extra taste, when he is alone with a friend of hers :

I did not assume from her silence that my kisses had given her any pleasure; but she was incapable of indignation and could think of no polite way of rejecting me in French. I nibbled at her cheeks, fully expecting a sweet juice to squirt out, as from a peach. . . . Her only gesture of refusal was to move her head feebly from left to right, and from right to left. I did not delude myself, but my mouth took this t be the response it desired . . . I was naive enough to imagine that things would continue in the same fashion and that I would succeed in raping her without difficulty

I don’t even know what to comment on this.

In an unrealistic and abrupt turn of events the woman he is having an affair with dies. In real life, she lived, and her husband spent the next fifty years trying to prove to everyone the book was fiction. He was eventually buried with his wife’s letters and a book that celebrated the heroism of the soldiers of WWI. I feel bad for him, but then on the other hand he did get that extra fifty years to protest his wife’s virtue, while the author got fifty years of being dead.

THE DRIVER’S SEAT by Muriel Spark

Here is good writing put to little effect. It tells the story of a woman called Lise who goes on a mini-break, hoping to meet ‘the one.’ The author tells us from the beginning that Lise will end up murdered. The ‘one’ she is looking for is the one who will kill her, as she wants to die. Eventually, she lucks out and meets a man recently released from an asylum. Here they are shortly after meeting:

“Sex is normal,” he says. “I’m cured. Sex is all right.”

“It’s all right at the time and it’s all right before,” says Lise, “but the problem is afterwards. This is, if you aren’t just an animal. Most of the times, afterwards is pretty sad.”

Yes, it’s red flags galore.

She tells him she just wants to be murdered, not raped; he can do that ‘after.’ However, once they are alone in the dark park, he does his raping first. As to why, there I can’t help you. Men will need to be explaining their issues on that one.

Anyway, I found it kind of lame, despite objectively being unable to deny it was wonderfully written. Partly, not to be all woke about it, but all of this begging to die seemed a bit victim blame-y. You can die on your holidays without going looking for it. I think though my issues were less socio-political than artistic. The whole book was written at a sort of bizarre kind of remove. I think the introduction has it:

. . .the great flaw in post-modernism, however, has always been that the writer’s freedom to expose the fictionality of fiction tends to be precisely paralleled by the reader’s freedom not to care what happens in the book.

I mean, yup.

BATH TANGLE by Georgette Heyer

This blog tells me this is my 18th Heyer. It was exactly what I was looking for, a meringue of a book. It’s a Regency romance, of course, but an unusual one, as involved people cheating on each other, which I can’t think I’ve ever seen from her before.

Though the picture shows the coffee shop at the Wallace Collection, I mostly listened to it on audio book while doing DIY: ripping up carpets and sanding my Victorian floorboards. It is strange to think my flat is so old that the floorboards are almost the same time period as the story.

A BURNT-OUT CASE by Graham Greene

Here is an architect who decides that the best place to handle his existential crisis is a leper colony in the DRC.

I love Graham Greene. Going backwards through my blog, I realize this is my ninth book of his. And I’m sorry to say my least favourite. He is all about lost men racked with guilt (which usually, for some reason, I apparently love) but this one was really a bridge too far.

First of all, I’m not going to say the DRC is like an ideal holiday location, but he comes it a bit strong here, calling it ‘a continent of misery and heat.’ Second of all, it is a bit hard to sympathise with you about losing your faith when you are going on about it among lepers who have lost their hands and feet.

LITTLE EYES by Samantha Schweblin

In this novel, a company comes out with a small toy. It is special because each toy is controlled by another customer somewhere else, who can see through its eyes and move it around. It can’t speak. It’s a series of vignettes of the toy’s owners and the toy’s controller.

It sounds like an interesting premise, all about disconnection, technology, our loss of physical contact, etc. However, for me, it ended up not very interesting. Every story ends badly. In a shock finding, having an anonymous stranger in your house is not a great idea. In another amazing insight, we find out technology is not always positive.

I mean: really? That’s it?

I guess I shouldn’t say every vignette ends badly, because I didn’t get to the end. Maybe there was some kind of reversal, some how. However life is short so I didn’t find out

UNDER THE SKIN by Michael Faber

Here is a fantastically wonderful book with an amazing twist, so I recommend stopping reading this post right now and getting the book, because this is going to be full of SPOILERS.

The book begins with a woman picking up hitchhikers. This is so abnormal in the modern world that you can only assume she must be a serial killer. The hitchhikers do indeed die, and there is an extremely clever, slow reveal as to why. SHE’S AN ALIEN AND SHE’S ABDUCTING THEM AS A CULINARY DELICACY FOR HER HOME PLANET.

You’d think, based on this, it would be a science fiction story. It’s not at all. Mostly you are in head of the woman. Like many non-aliens, she hates her job, hates her boss, has a crush on someone who isn’t interested. At one point, some of the captured hitchhikers escape. They have been with the aliens for a month:

Removed from the warmth of its pen, it was pathetically unfit for the environment, bleeding from a hundred scratches, pinky-blue with cold. It had the typical look of a monthling, its shaved nub of a head nestled like a bud atop the disproportionately massive body. Its empty scrotal sac dangled like a pale oak leaf under its dark acorn of a penis. A thin stream of blueish-black diarrhoea clattered onto the ground between its legs. Its fists swept the air jerkily. Its mouth opened wide to show its cored molars and the docked stub of its tongue.

  ‘Ng-ng-ng-ng-gh!’ it cried.

She has occasional moral scruples about how they are treating the humans. But as she explains at one point, they “couldn’t siuwil, they couldn’t mesnishtil, they had no concept of slan . . . And when you looked into their glazed little eyes, you could understand why.” It’s clearly, among many, many, other things, a meditation about vegetarianism, and how we train ourselves to not have compassion. And not just for animals, but for sweatshop employees, for children affected by air pollution, and all the other things that make the world go round.

At one point we do visit the processing plant, where one of the recently de-tongued hitchhikers writes the word MERCY on the ground. The alien pretends to a wealthy visitor that she does not know what it means, as she does not want do-gooders getting hysterical. And indeed there is no such word in the alien language in any case. Later, when things go wrong with a hitchhiker, and he is trying to rape her (luckily she lacks human genitals), she is terrified, and tries to remember the word. “Murky!” she screams. It’s not everyday you laugh at a rape scene.

The aliens’ home planet is some kind of toxic stew, where oxygen and water are expensive and must be fought for. Thus, much of the book is spent with the alien marvelling at beauty of the countryside around the A9 highway. It is tragic to see our ‘ordinary’ world through her eyes. She is amazed we have still got sky and sea to enjoy. For a little while, anyway.

COMING UP FOR AIR by George Orwell

This is a book about a man who does not succeed in blowing up his life.  He is an insurance salesman, married with two children, and labouring under a mortgage.  (In a sign that things were better back then, the mortgage is only for sixteen years.  WTF is up with London housing)

One day he conceives a desire to go fishing, as he was an avid fisherman as a boy. He has not however fished since he was sixteen.  Here’s why:

In this life we lead – I don’t mean human life in general, I mean life in this particular age and this particular country – we don’t do the things we want to do.  It isn’t because we’re always working. . . . It’s because there’s some devil in us that drives us to and fro on everlasting idiocies.  There’s time for everything except the things worth doing.  Think of something you really care about.  Then add hour to hour and calculate the fraction of your life that you’ve actually spent doing it.  And then calculate the time you’ve spent on things like shaving, riding to and fro on buses, waiting in railways junctions, swapping dirty stories and reading the newspapers. 

He bunks off from his family to go and spend a week in the village in which he grew up, which he has not seen in twenty years.  In his mind ‘as permanent as they pyramids,’ he arrives to find it now just an outer suburb of London, and not an especially nice one at that.  He buys a fishing rod and does not use it.  He sees an old girlfriend, and is horrified and how old she looks.  Fat and with false teeth himself, he assures us that men never go so far downhill as women do.  Sometimes the patriarchy is really adorably deluded.

He ends up going home, concluding there is no escape from his life.  The year however is 1938, and the book has hanging over it very explicitly the coming war.  You feel he will almost welcome it.

Side point. Orwell published a bunch of books you’ve never heard of, including this, and then in 1945, Animal Farm; and in 1949, the novel 1984.  Then in 1950 he was dead, at 47.  Imagine: he managed to squeeze in two seminal classics just before the end. Imagine what would have come next.  Imagine how close to the wire he cut it. 

THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF NATHANIEL P by Adelle Waldman

My third time through this excellent book, and I like it even more on the re-read than I did before.

It’s the story of a four month relationship between two New York hipsters, both aspiring writers. It tries to answer the age-old question, is it you or is it me, and the answer is, as it always is, that it’s both. Or it’s neither.

Part of the power of the book is that it is written from the man’s perspective, but the author is a woman. I have tried and tried to figure out what is so powerful about this book, and I think somehow this is part of it: there is a giant effort of imagination to see it from the other side. I note I am struck once again, as I was when I first read it in 2013, by this:

As they were getting into bed, she told him that he was treated like a big shot because he was a guy and had the arrogant sense of entitlement to ask for and expect to get everything he wanted, to think no honor too big for him. The funny thing was that Nate thought there was a great deal of truth in this. But he thought she could stand to ask for more. His main criticism of her, in terms of writing, was that too often she wasn’t ambitious enough. She should treat each piece as it if mattered, instead of laughing off flaws proactively, defensively, citing a ‘rushed job’ or an ‘editor who’d mess it up anyway’ . . .”

I’m also struck this time through by the complexity. He meets the girl randomly at a party, some time after breaking up with her, and drunkenly goes home trying to figure out why he dumped her. He wakes up feeling happy. The last few lines are:

In a few days, it would be as if this night never happened, the only evidence of it an unsent email automatically saved to his drafts folder (“Dear Hannah … “). He’d no more remember the pain – or the pleasure – of this moment than he would remember, once he moved into the new apartment, the exact scent of the air from his bedroom window at dawn, after he’d been up all night working.

I love this. It’s so true how hard it is to figure out how you really feel.

SHUGGIE BAIN by Douglas Stuart

About ten pages into this book, I felt like I was getting into a hot bath. I just got ready to seriously relax. It’s exactly the sort of book I like: one that gives you a break from your own life, by deeply involving you in someone else’s.

It tells the story of a little boy being raised on some quite rough council estates by his alcoholic mother. I would bet heavy money that this book, while marketed as fiction, is based on the author’s own childhood. There is a certain subset of books in which the detail of daily life is so vividly captured that it can only come from a child’s eye, and ideally a child with a ton of trauma. It’s Glasgow in the 1980s, a place and a time I’ve never given a second thought to, and now I feel like I have a real experience of it. It joins such bizarrely disparate periods as Trinidad in the 1950s (courtesy, A HOUSE FOR MR BISWAS) and the Dominican Republic in the 1960s (courtesy, FEAST OF THE GOAT read on a particularly hallucinatory 12 hour bus ride to Acupulco).

I won’t go on about everything I thought was wonderful about this book, but let me just leave you with this:

The other taxi drivers had taken on that familiar shape of men past their prime, the hours spent sedentary behind the wheel causing the collapse of their bodies, the full Scottish breakfasts and the snack bar suppers settling like cooled porridge around their waists. Eventually the taxi hunched them over till their shoulders rounded into a soft hump and their heads jutted forward on jowled necks. The ones who had been at the night shift a long time had turned ghostly pale, their only colour was the faint rosacea from the years of drink. These were the men who decorated their fingers with gold sovereign rings, taking vain pleasure from watching them sit high and shiny on the steering wheel

And that’s just taxi drivers! Imagine everything else that’s in there