Hux

Three Trapped Tigers (1967) G. Cabrera Infante I searched for this book for a long time and could never find a copy eventually having no choice but to accept a second hand copy that had crisp, yellow pages (perhaps after decades of being in a bedsit where a man (let's call him Leroy) smoked forty roll-ups a day). In a strange way, the sickly mustard hue almost suited the book and made me think of sun drenched beaches and cigarette filled bars. I so wanted the book to be something glorious but, alas, it was nothing more than another febrile mess of Joycean mimicry not even attempting to masquerade as anything else. Infante can write but (like so many of his contemporaries) he made a choice of style over substance, to squander his talent by dismissing the opportunity to create a great work that would appeal to the world in perpetuity, instead focusing on ensuring that he would appeal to seven esoteric hipsters with names like Zac and Blane in a Seattle coffee shop who, on reflection, would eventually grow tired of their own performative claims of loving him anyway. The book is vague, incoherent, meandering, and unforgivably dull. I am reliably informed that the book is about three young people in Havana. But honestly, if you told me it was about ten people or just one, I wouldn't be able to categorically confirm or deny the assertion. I had no idea what was happening, who was speaking, what people looked like, where things were taking place, or how any of it connected. Some parts were easy to read but I still had no context for what was going on or why it should matter to me. I couldn't even tell you the name of one of the narrators (I think one of them might have been a photographer called Codac) but I lost interest by then because amid the skittish chopping and changing, we also have some stream-of-consciousness prose (because obviously) that adds very little and only further muddies the waters. I think there was one solitary page where I found a beautiful sentence (describing the nightclub singer) and Cabrera does a decent job of generating a sense of heat and tropical sweat on various sunburned bodies, but that aside, I simply found the writing to be immensely dull and repetitive. That damn James Joyce has a lot to answer for. There may be others out there who will like this so I would still recommend it but I found it extremely difficult to engage with. What makes it so frustrating (again) is the fact that Cabrera can clearly write but chose to do this instead. It's all just so tiresome. For all the inventive stuff thrown in (a mirrored page of backward writing, an upside down pyramid of writing, a few lists (because these kinds of books must always have lists) and several disjointed chapters that break things up for brevity), Cabrera never really considers the possibility that entertaining me me might also be an inventive thing to do. Sigh. 4/10

The Strangers in the House (1940) Georges Simenon This is Simenon's bread and butter, a murder mystery, an investigation, a trial. But on closer inspection it's actually about a man waking up after 18 years of hiding from the world. Hector Loursat was a gifted lawyer, married with a young baby when his wife suddenly ran off with another man. He has since spent the next 18 years in his enormous dusty mansion avoiding the world. He has no relationship with his daughter Nicole nor any of the servants that come and go including the dwarf Josephine who is essentially tasked with running the house. He is a broken man, an alcoholic, waiting for nothing. Then he hears a shot somewhere in the house and discovers a body. What follows is a murder investigation that reveals a world unknown to him, the world of his daughter and her friends. They have apparently been having parties in his house, drinking, dancing, falling in love, without him ever knowing (or wanting to know) about it. Suddenly, he is forced to wake up, to find out what happened, to discover who these people are that have been sharing his house. But most of all he is finally finding out who his daughter, a total stranger, also is. Very quickly, her lover, Manu, is accused and Loursat agrees to defend him. He drinks less, he leaves the house more, he opens his eyes. It's well written and very interesting but ultimately it wasn't anything special. Under normal circumstances you might dismiss it as a basic procedural, a murder mystery (not something I'm interested in), but for the fact that it's more about Loursat than anything else. Which is its saving grace. A nice little tale about middle-aged man regaining his life. 7/10

Platform (2001) Michel Houellebecq At first glance, it seems as though Houellebecq never writes about anything substantial. His novels are full of unrealistic sex and judgemental opinion, but by the end of the book, he's essentially predicted the fall of western civilization, the coming Islamic threat, and the continued hostility between the genders. He has his finger pretty much on the pulse but given that his conclusions are not in the spirit of the banal liberalism and progressivism we demand, they tend to get people riled up. But he continues to be the only writer saying something interesting. And he's funny. There's a part of the book where he describes a woman's vaginal grip as akin to trying to remove a Lego from the hand of a retarded boy. Well, it made me laugh. The story begins with the narrator's (Michel's) father being murdered. It's solved very quickly (dad was fudgeing the Arab maid and her brother killed him). He uses this time to go on holiday to Thailand with a package tour including several other French people to essentially have sex with prostitutes. When he returns to France, he and Valerie (a 27-year lesbian woman also on the tour) shack up together in Paris. She works for a tourism company and her boss Jean-Yves is tasked with improving the company's tours. The three of them go to Cuba to assess why the resort is failing. Michel suggest he makes the tours more sex based and Jean-Yves agrees. Then they go back to France. Then Valerie wants to retire to Thailand. Then there's an insane ending. I really enjoyed the book. It kept making me laugh. Especially the sex scenes which are ludicrous and pure fantasy on Houellebeq's part. Prostitutes love to orgasm apparently. And they orgasm very easily. And women (like Valerie) love threesomes and open relationships (like most women). The whole thing is absurd but immensely fun and laugh-out-loud (reminded me of Celine's Death on Credit when the head teacher's wife aggressively shags little Celine). Pure fantasy but overtly so (and should be read in that spirit). Published before 9/11 or the attacks in Bali, Houellebecq predicts the rise of Islam (with more to come in Submission) and once again, as he always does, reiterates that western civilisation has lost its way and produced a method of living that is cold, soulless, and unsustainable. I always find something to like in his work. He is just my level of filth. 8/10

The Magic Mountain (1924) Thomas Mann Hans Castorp goes to visit his cousin Joachim at a sanatorium in Davos, Switzerland. His intention is to stay for three weeks but his own health has its issues and he ends up staying longer. Much longer. At the sanatorium he encounters several characters who (wouldn't you know it) all seem to represent a certain worldview (including Joachim) and like to speak (at length) about these ideas and opinions. The most prominent among them is Settembrini (humanism, liberal democracy, etc) and then later his counterpart Naphta (Commie garbage) and much later (towards the end in fact) Peeperkorn (aristocracy, Dionysian). Then we have the Russian lady Clavdia Chauchat (hot cat!) who, obviously, is a hot throbbing sexpot representation of temptations and lust and so on. These characters all live in the sanatorium and engage in verbose dialogues that explore the slow destruction of Western civilisation as it succumbs to an era of extremists (which tends to happen when things get boring (see modern day for example)). Castorp (and Mann) can see what's on the horizon and though the book takes place before the first world war, it was obviously written after and yet (despite that war being behind us) Mann can see further problems ahead. He is concerned for the soul of Europe and sees that we are doomed. My own interpretation of the book is that life at the sanatorium represents the human condition. We take a rest at this place (life) and delude ourselves into thinking that once we are well, healthy and strong, we can go out into the world when, in reality, we are never well, never healthy, and we are simply waiting for death to come. Why get better simply to go and die? There is no getting better. There's just being unwell then death. You're welcome. And Castorp (we assume) does indeed end the book by going off to the war. So if you like weighty books that explore big themes, you should read this. That being said... I found it rather oppressive and dull. I've read whoppers before and found them engaging. My best comparison being Musil's 'The Man Without Qualities' which I enjoyed a lot. It explored the same big questions but did so by giving us a myriad of characters who push the narrative in different directions with new scenarios. It allows you (the reader) to take a breath as you dig into the next mammoth philosophical debate and adds colour to the proceedings. The Magic Mountain doesn't. It's just the same people at the sanatorium talking endlessly. There are no new environments or developments, only relentless weighty conversations between characters that never really feel entertaining so much as voyeuristic and deliberate. And there's a great deal of pondering from the narrator (Mann) about things such as time (that one is fairly interesting) and life in general. He tends to start each chapter with a few paragraphs of opinion. The amount of investment you must offer for such minor rewards is a heavy ask. I struggled all the way through and never really enjoyed the experience. Sure, it's a great work and well written (though never beautiful in my opinion) but it's less of a book and more of a lecture. You will need to properly invest and frankly, I don't want to (not unless you make it a lot more entertaining). Would I recommend it? Probably not. If you're going to investigate politics, history, philosophy etc then you should probably do it without the need for a somewhat banal fictional narrative surrounding it. Ultimately, this is a book that should be studied, not read. 5/10

my head. Once completed....

Journey by Moonlight (1937) Antal Szerb Mihály and Erzsi are on honeymoon in Italy. While in Venice, they bump into his old friend Szepetneki (conveniently bumping into people who can push the narrative along is a recurring theme here) and this leads to Mihaly telling Erzsi a long story about his younger days with Tamás, his sister, Eva, Ervin and Szepetneki. Predominantly it is the suicide of Tamás and the disappearance of Ervin and Eva that are of note Mihaly gets off the train at a station and they are separated. At this point Mihaly decides to have a breakdown and shack up with am American girl called Millicent and travel around Italy alone. Erzsi goes to Paris and things happen there but whatever. Then Mihaly bumps into Ervin and then later bumps into Eva and so and so forth (thank goodness he keeps bumping into integral characters). It was all rather forgettable. I'm not sure what the book was exploring, maybe grief, nostalgia, loss of youth, or just the inability of men to grow up. Who knows. It was very easy to read and I enjoyed the first two thirds but was losing interest towards the end. The book has a kind of magical realism (no thanks) which goes hand-in-hand with another literary trope I loath... the mystery. The book has Mihaly searching for Eva (what happened to her) and she seems to flitter in and out like a ghost and it's mostly annoying because books with a mystery element ALWAYS disappoint. The resolution is always dull. So, you know... get on with it! Anyway, I really enjoyed the first half (very easy to read and fun) but became increasingly bored as it went along. I suspect Szerb was playing with ideas of capitalist ennui (he uses the word 'bourgeoisie' several times so you really get the point) and the rise of fascism and youthful exuberance and blah blah but the fact remains, Mihaly comes across as a spoiled middle class tool. 'Please send money so I can continue swanning about Italy and being weirdly nostalgic for a period of life that was less than a decade ago.' The ultimate content of the book irritated me (banal middle-class navel gazing). But it was an easy read and had some nice moments and went along at a pace so I would still recommend it. In fact, I suspect most people will like this book quite a lot (certainly more than I did). 7/10

The Snow Was Dirty (1948) Georges Simenon There was a beach for Mersault (The Stranger) and Ozo (No longer Human). But for Frank Friedmaier it is snow, old, dirty and hardened snow. In many ways, I think Frank made more impact on me because while he is detached, lost, and unable to access human emotions, there is a strange glimmer of hope, of light, of a possibility that he might be in there... somewhere. Additionally, he doesn't feel sorry for himself and always maintains a stoicism yet has a vulnerability which is tangible. I found it hard to truly care for the soulless Mersault or the cowardly Ozo but Frank made me want to cry. He knows his fate better than anyone. He reached me. Which is all the more perplexing (and impressive) because Simenon uses third person narration (albeit a very close third person narration) as opposed to the more obvious choice of first person. But you hardly even notice this. Anyway, the story opens with a young nineteen year old boy called Frank who, as a petty criminal, has decided that he must commit a murder. For no particular reason, simply because it is a necessity of the world he inhabits. Later, there is a robbery and another murder, this one possessing a past connection to Frank. Meanwhile his mother, Lotte, runs a brothel and Frank has sex with the girls as and when he chooses. He never refers to his mother as mum but always as Lotte. Then there is the sixteen-year-old girl, Sissy, his neighbour, who becomes infatuated with Frank, loving him almost from the first instance. But again, he feels nothing for her. In fact, he organises for one of his criminal pals (Kromer) to have sex with her in his dark bedroom whilst letting her think it's actually Frank. This is just how cold and unfeeling Frank is. How broken. How remote. Or is he? Because this appears to be the event that breaks something in Frank. He begins to obsess over Sissy's father, turning him into a strange symbol of redemption, craving him as his own father. He maintains his aloof coldness but as I said, there is a glimmer of light, a possibility of his soul and humanity finally emerging. But it all comes too late as Frank is arrested (for which specific crimes we don't know). But his time is up. And he knows it. Throughout the book there are vague references to war and an occupying force in the (equally vague) country but Simenon is (I believe) deliberately turning the environment into something obscure and nightmarish. It could be any country, any occupier, any war. It could be any nineteen year old boy. And it could be any bleak dirty snow that covers the landscape of his wasted life. Yes, the book slams on the breaks at the end with the interrogation chapters (far too many of them) but by that point, I was already in love. I now place Frank with Mersault and Ozo and continue my search for more of our lost brothers. Magnificent. 10/10

Bought a second hand version of 'Three Trapped Tigers' by Cabrera Infante. Not sure what to expect in terms of quality but I've been looking for this book forever and this appears to be my only option.

Zorba The Greek (1946) Nikos Kazantzakis The story of two men who go to Crete and mine Lignite and spend their days on the beach. The narrator (the boss) is a bookworm and thinker but his new friend, Zorba, is inclined to be more passionate and wild. They spend their evenings drinking, singing, talking of life. And that's essentially the plot (save for some rather bizarre events towards the end of the book that slightly lost me). Kazantzakis does a great job of creating the scene, you can hear the waves, feel the sun, smell the wine, and hear the laughter. Zorba is a man who believes very much in living now. And he encourages the boss to embrace this worldview before it's too late. Overall, I enjoyed the book but was never blown away by it. Kazantzakis is a wonderful writer and has moments of exceptional prose but the book is very dialogue driven so the language is predominantly straight-forward discussions between the men. But when Kazantzakis allows the boss to think about things alone, to articulate his thoughts, the writing becomes sublime: After a while, you become lost in the Mediterranean shimmer of light and the drinking of wine. You settle in and enjoy their company, listen to these two men discuss philosophy and existence while Zorba endeavours to teach the boss that life has no meaning and can only be experienced in the here and now. As such, I kept hearing that song: 'The Whole of the Moon' by the Waterboys in my head. It seemed to sum up their relationship: The boss wants to learn. Zorba wants to live. 'I spoke about wings, you just flew.' 7/10

Paris Trout (1988) Pete Dexter I generally avoid plot driven novels because they often have little to say about the human condition but are -- as they are designed to be -- immensely fun to read. This one was very good and swept me along quite nicely until I was fully satisfied and entertained. But the downside to plot driven books is that they don't live long in the memory and rarely posses any language or writing that is especially significant. But every now and then an entertaining yarn is all you really want or need. And on that score, this is great. It's the 1950s and we're somewhere in the deep south of shucks y'all, yee-haw America. Paris Trout is a racist who, after loaning a car to a young black man and not getting paid, turns up at his house with his henchman Buster Devonne, and shoots the mother and a 14-year-old girl called Rosie Sayers. What follows is a community in denial, a complicity, and a trial that leads nowhere. Trout is never really punished because of his power and influence and because the society he lives in doesn't really put any value in a black person's life. It's a story you've read/seen a million times before (from America especially) and it's quite purposely designed to get your back up. Paris Trout, for example, is cartoonishly evil. Not only is he a racist and murderer but also a misogynist and abuser of his own wife. Dexter really lays it on thick and lets you hate Trout from the word go until you start to enjoy it. There are no redeeming features, just relentless villainy to get your teeth into. As such, it's somewhat manipulative and predictable as a story but -- as already stared -- enormously enjoyable to read. There is only one part of Trout's life that indicates he is more than just an unthinking monster and that's his ailing elderly mother who lives in a nursing home. He often visits her and, at the climax of the book, uses her in his last line of defence. But even this throws no real light on Trout as a person or his motivations. I suspect the book is more about the community ignoring his actions (and therefore being complicit in them) than an exploration of why those actions occurred in the first place. So yeah, of no real literary significance but a good old-fashioned and entertaining romp. 7/10

The Green Face (1916) Gustav Meyrink This was both strange and creepy. I'm tempted to describe it is a horror novel but it goes beyond that and is more surreal and disturbing. It reminded me a little of 'The Tenant' by Torpor in the sense that it was just a little unnerving and obscure. Written at the height of the war in 1916, the book actually takes place after the war has ended and implies (quite correctly as it turns out) that the consequences of this war will change the world and lead to even greater upheaval. Especially, Meyrick predicts, for the Jews. A man named Hauberisser lives in Amsterdam and visits a magic shop where he encounters a creepy old Jew who works there. As the book goes along, his friends and others have also seen this 'wandering' Jew either in paintings or in real life. He has a green, bronze face and seems to be neither a harbinger of good nor bad. What follows is Hauberisser trying to make sense of what he has seen and what it might mean. He returns to the magic shop only to discover that it has a new name and no-one knows anything about the Jewish bookkeeper. Meanwhile, Hauberisser has a friend named Pfeill who has friends who appear to be in a spiritualist cult. One of them is murdered by a Zulu warrior (did I mention there's a Zulu warrior?). Then he meets a woman called Eva who he instantly falls in love with (there follows a chapter where the Zulu warrior follows her and tries (via some African magic) to control and rape her). She then disappears. But reappears in a haze of fog and dies. I mean... it's all a bit weird and hard to explain. But it's good. I enjoyed it a lot and was fascinated by the creepiness of it all. There are huge swathes of Jewish and Christian myth involved and, to be fair, those parts of the book were the only ones that I didn't care for. I find it hard to take religion seriously especially when it takes itself so seriously. Meyrink throws a lot of this stuff at the reader and talks about Elijah and Cabala and a bridge from this world to the world beyond. From a religious point of view it didn't interest me. But from a creepy novel point of view it was highly effective. A strange and interesting book. 7/10

The Recognitions (1955) William Gaddis Took me forever to read this and even then I was skipping page after page and groaning with frustration and boredom throughout the entire ordeal. And ordeal is the word. If you're someone who takes a slither of narcissistic pleasure from reading absolute whoppers like this (that will make you feel more intelligent and cultured) then give it a whirl. If you have a life and bills to pay, however, you might wanna use it as a door stop because it's a bloated mess. The story is basic: a man named Wyatt Gwyon ends up painting forgeries for a capitalist pig (his name is Recktall for goodness sake) and begins to lose sight of what is good art and bad art and religious imagery and blah blah blah Faustian pact, higgledy-piggledy, etc etc, who am I mommy? There's also some bloke called Otto (a writer) and Stanley but I lost lost interest by that point and was skim reading in the desperate hopes of finding a paragraph that might grab me and blow me away or make me weep for the exquisite prose or have a character who is fully realised and not just a block of wood uttering unrealistic dialogue; or maybe even just a fascinating flow of language that is lyrical and engaging... but nope, that wasn't happening. What's annoying is that Gaddis can clearly write. But he can't tell a story for shhhhhhh. Some of the writing is indeed wonderful but it meanders and drags so much that it never finds its footing. You can tell its his first novel and you get the distinct impression that he's trying too hard to impress. Some will tell you that the difficulty is deliberate but that's never remotely demonstrated and the difficulty always comes across as nothing more than poor writing, pacing, character development, and a lack of experience at his craft. He doesn't know how to put it all together in a way that's cohesive and fun. There is NO FUN to be had here. NONE! And it's so sad because the man can write but he just doesn't have the skill to make it flow (perhaps this improved with his later works). It's like listening to a urine soaked tramp ramble on about something but every now and then they'll say something eloquent and beautiful but the fact remains, he's still a urine soaked tramp and the strong, pungent scent of wee fundamentally overrides any sense of engagement regarding the sudden moment of lucid language. Was it a fluke? Is it test? Do I give a shhhhhhh? Then there's the fact that Gaddis will drag an idea out far longer than he needs to. You can start a page and he'll be talking about a sandwich then skip four pages only to discover he's still talking about the damn sandwich but in language that is turgid and pointless. Art for arts sake I suppose. And that's fine but I have a life to live too Mr Gaddis and I'd appreciate it if you got to the fudgeing point!! And yet. And yet, there's definitely something worth reading here. But the question is: are you willing to sacrifice the time and energy to slowly and methodically crowbar that something out? And will it be worth it? For me, it was a gigantic no -- I've got better things to do (weeding the garden for example). You might fair better. In fact, I might even kid myself that I was simply in a bad place when I read this (highly unlikely because I'm always in a bad place) because the only alternative I can find is that all you people claiming to love this book are doing so performatively. There's something slightly battered housewife about the reviews I've read. Something of the hostage claiming that the terrorists treated them well. So to all those who gave it rave reviews, I would like to ask them to read it again but this time with a camera videoing them to prove it. Already, I suspect their eyes are filling with globules of tears and they're beginning to shake and rock back and forth at the mere request. But saying you love mammoth literary tomes like this offers a high status reward. And some people care about that. Hell, I occasionally care about that. But I have learnt, with experience, that it's NEVER worth it. I would still recommend it because... it's got something. But tread carefully because it will inflict upon you a level of tedium and banality that might make you want to punch yourself. For me, life is too short. 4/10

Two Serious Ladies (1943) Jane Bowles Two bored upper-class women condescend to the lower classes and live in a word of utter luxury, privilege and ignorant detachment. There are only three chapters. Chapter One is immensely boring and focuses on Miss Goering, a wealthy heiress who allows a random woman to move in with her followed by a random middle-aged man. They move to an island off the coast. Chapter Two focuses in Mrs Copperfield, a married woman who, with her husband, goes to Central America for a jolly. She wants to hang around with prostitutes because... reasons. Then Chapter Three goes back to the very dull and smug Miss Goering who now pops into town on the mainland to make the balls of men turn blue. The end. Where to start with this? Chapter Two was really gripping because it seemed to be going somewhere salacious, as though Mrs Copperfield was a lesbian fiend who, with the permission of her husband, liked to screw young prostitutes. But Bowles only ever hints at things and never actually just comes out and says it. Mrs Copperfield and Pacifica (the prostitute) go back to her hotel room for example but then just... fall asleep. I dunno. It's all very vague and irritating. Just spit it out for Christ's sake! I felt like I was being given a hand-job by a woman then, just when I'm about to finish, she stops. I get that it's 1943 and she has to be subtle. But this went beyond subtle and was simply obfuscating matters needlessly. It was almost childlike. Then back to the boring Miss Goering and I'm done. I'm sure people will tell me this is some great feminist take about women breaking free from their chains but no, it really isn't. It's two spoiled, privileged women who have no grasp of reality at all. Bowles was clearly a woman who never did a day's work in her life and assumed this was the norm and believed that the prostitutes she slept with actually liked her or something. Her husband, Paul Bowles, at least understood the privilege of their tedious ennui. Hence he has them die horribly or be repeatedly raped without the protection of their 'sheltering sky.' But Jane Bowles appears utterly ignorant of that reality and has these two women engage in behaviours that, in real life, would have resulted in being endlessly beaten or raped. But she presents it all as something quite twee and disposable. And yet, I can't say that the book is entirely bad. It's well written and intriguing. I just don't think it's saying anything meaningful outside a room filled with posh people chattering about their little lives. I so wanted the prostitutes she met to tell her to fudge off. But no, they all want to be her friend because she's so lovely. Because that's life apparently. 6/10

Asylum (1996) Patrick McGrath Enormously entertaining albeit noticeably flawed. The premise is very basic. A psychiatrist (Max) arrives at an asylum for the criminally insane and lives on the grounds with his wife (Stella) and young son Charlie. Some of the patients (including a man named Edgar Stark) work on their garden and conservatory. Stella begins an affair with Edgar (a man who murdered his wife and beheaded her). All of this information is essentially given to us in the opening chapter by the narrator Peter Cleave who is also a psychiatrist at the hospital. What follows is his retelling of a passionate affair which spiraled into obsession and madness. The book is well written but nothing special in regards to the prose; the real selling point of the novel is how gripping the story is and how well paced. I was impressed by McGrath's previous book Spider and was keen to read more of his work. Understandably (given that his father was superintendent at Broadmoor) he writes about mental illness quite a lot and has excellent (albeit cliched) insights. And this is where some of my criticism comes in. Stella is essentially presented as a rather feckless woman who, given the chance for some passion in her life, puts herself and others at risk. While it's believable and well realised, it does ultimately play into certain tropes and stereotypes about women. That age-old question: What do women actually want? McGrath covers all bases by conveniently making Edgar both brutish and sensitive. He murdered his wife and has possessive tendencies (best expressed in an aggressive sexual desire) but at the same time, he's an artist, a sculpture, with a sensitive soul and a creative humour. Do women want men to be dominant alpha males who possess a modicum of sexual threat and violence? Or do they want stability and caring? Probably both. Then there are issues of the unreliable narrator (an issue also repeated in Spider). How does Peter Cleave know all these things about what happened? Put under any serious scrutiny, it doesn't actually add up. In the end, the book ultimately leaves you with the impression that Stella is as insane as Edgar but, by mere virtue of circumstances, has kept it well hidden until now. Not a new idea (we're all a little crazy) but one which is always intriguing. And obviously, it goes without saying that every single man she encounters sexualises her until she (rather unconvincingly I thought) submits. With that in mind, I also felt that McGrath set the book in the late '50s for a reason. The liberal permissive culture of the 1960s was around the corner (and here to stay) bringing freedom and expression and excitement into our lives. And yet the stability and conservatism we all pretend to hate is something that we might not want to abandon quite so carelessly. Did we risk long-term contentment and security for nothing more than instant gratification? Did Stella? Anyway, I found the book immensely fun to read. McGrath's writing never rises to a level of exquisite prose or literary profundity but it tells the story effectively with superb clarity and lucidity. 8/10

Monday Morning (1925) Patrick Hamilton The book is Hamilton's first (he was only 21) and while you can unquestionably see that in the subject matter (it being a little more frothy, lightweight, and lacking in the cynicism of his later books) it does, nonetheless, already have that wonderful Hamilton style that makes reading his books so enjoyable. The plot revolves around a young man named Anthony who has ambitions of writing a novel but is always procrastinating or being distracted by other things. Hence the title ('I will begin my life next Monday morning'). More than once he assures us (and himself) that he will start his novel next Monday morning, that he will ask Diane to marry him two weeks from now on Monday morning, that he will begin his life properly on the Monday morning following the completion of his acting tour. The book is a gentle reminder of youth and the hopes and dreams of making our way in the world as adults but life getting in the way. He lives in a boarding house and barely writes a single chapter of his novel, has flights of fancy, falls in love with Diane (causing more flights of fancy), then somehow finds himself becoming an actor. The story isn't any more complex than that. A young man gently finding his way in life. As I say, it lacks the heartbreak of his other novels (age will do that to you) but his writing already has that familiar tempo and style which made the book such a breeze to read. Ultimately, the story is quite lightweight and trivial but I give it a higher mark purely because of the enjoyment I had in reading it. Hamilton is fast becoming a favourite of mine which is why I wanted to read his first novel. As expected, it doesn't pack quite the punch as his later works but to think a 21-year-old could write like this, so effortlessly and assuredly, is still very impressive. A wonderful if gentle read that I would definitely recommend. 8/!0

For Two Thousand Years (1934) Mihail Sebastian The book is presented as a diary or journal and has several short entries before, towards the middle, expanding into a more coherent narrative structure. As a novel it's very easy to read but never especially beautiful or fluid. It feels like a diary and reads like one, in a rather stuttering voice that has occasional humour but mostly, as introspective diaries tend to be, a flat and bland tone. The book (published in 1934) begins in the early twenties in Romania as the narrator details the growing sense of antisemitism in the air. He and his Jewish friends are regularly assaulted and by the end of the book (having moved into the 1930s) children are openly chanting 'death to the Jews' in the street. You get the distinct sense of something rising in Europe and the book does a good job of displaying its unnoticed mediocrity and slow development. Many of the narrator's friends are openly antisemitic and justify their positions with a casual disdain which they view, understandably, as mere words and opinions with no real weight. Towards the end, when he discusses antisemitism with his friend Pârlea, he suggests that things will end in cracked skulls and broken windows and that calling it 'revolution' is simply a new word for 'an ancient wretchedness.' To which Pârlea responds: The book is definitely worth reading and has some great parts but ultimately I just didn't find it especially engaging or that enjoyable to read. It plods along nicely but not much more than that. And to quote his friend Abraham Sulitzer: 'a book either knocks you down or raises you up.' And this did neither. It was somewhere in the middle. 6/10

The Limit (1974) Rosalind Belben This is one of those books people will claim to love but will NEVER read more than once. And as much as I want to give it some credit for having originality in both structure and style, the fact remains I, as a reader, need to be engaged by the narrative at some point. I've said it before and I'll say it again, if you're going to use stream-of-consciousness writing (and I don't see how better to describe this book) then you better be an absolute dream-weaving genius of prose and poetry. Otherwise, it's indulgent crap that thinks too highly of itself and exists purely to mask obvious mediocrity. The idea is interesting. A non-linear story of an Englishwoman (Anna) who is dying of cancer and her Italian husband, Ilaria, who is much younger than her. The book focuses on their relationship, the age gap, the profound connection they have as he comes to terms with slowly losing her. It's the kind of thing writers love writing about (especially when utilising experimental writing techniques) but, for me at least, it fails to ever be truly moving or thought-provoking. I have described the writing as stream-of-consciousness but it goes beyond that into something more jarring and stuttered. The narration is scatter gun and refuses (deliberately it would seem) to ever become fluid or compelling. And even when it doesn't need to, it adds unnecessary punctuation to further stifle the reader. Then you have the intertwined thoughts of both characters as well as an omniscient third person. It's a style you're either going to love or find irritating. It wasn't for me. But I know a lot people (claim to) like this kind of writing and I can certainly recognise its merits as a piece of literature so I would probably still recommend it. But I was personally hoping for much more. 5/10

Gog (1967) Andrew Sinclair Well, that was weird. I'm not sure how to describe this book other than to say it combines reality with fantasy, the present with the past, and a great deal of madness. The principle story (or rather the skeleton upon which the meat of insanity hangs) is that of a seven foot tall man washing up on the shore in Edinburgh in 1945. He has no memory of who he is and has only the clue of the word Gog tattooed on one knuckle and Magog tattooed on the other. After wandering out of the hospital he instinctively feels that he must walk to London. And so the curious road journey begins.. This is the point at which a standard narrative ends. Instead we are dealing with a man who can neither trust his memories nor his immediate surroundings. He falls away into dreamscapes, bizarre fantasy worlds that incorporate broken memories and past acquaintances, all while his mind jumbles everything into a cohesive structure. He meets a woman and her chauffer who seemingly want to kill him. He meets the bagman (a chap who believes Jerusalem must be built in London to avoid Armageddon), he meets a man named Crook who encourages Gog to rape a maiden before later beign sexually assaulted by Crook himself. He meets a myriad of other curious characters who seem to flitter in and out of reality being both representative of his real life and creations of a feverish mind. All the while he must get to London to defeat Magog. I adored the first third of this book. It was utterly mesmerising with some of the most beautiful prose and poetry I've read in a long time. Gog (and obviously Sinclair) are fascinated by ancient Britain, by the Celts, the Romans and the history of the island. As much as we are discovering Gog's identity, we are also discovering Britain's. It was all such a swirling madness of ancient lands and myth and legend, and the beauty of the people and the island. I was entirely fascinated by the insane structure and narrative. But as much as I enjoyed that first third, it just keeps going and, in my opinion, becomes a little too self-indulgent and frankly... too long. By the halfway point, you want answers or at least something new. But instead we get more of the same, more of the insanity and confusion, all while Gog explores the country (the book has a map of Britain showing the journey Gog takes). And sadly my interest waned quite badly. And the fact is the book is one of those where if you skipped ten chapters, you wouldn't really be missing much in terms of plot. Truth be told, After the first few chapters (and the last couple), you could probably read this book in any order you wanted. That's part of its genius but also part of it's downfall. I eventually found it hard-going and struggled to the end, but I would definitely recommend this book to everyone. It will either derange you or become one of the greatest things you've ever read. 7/10

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Freshwater (2018) Akwaeje Emezi Tricky one to review because I loved the first half of the novel (when a more literal interpretation was available) but began rolling my eyes towards the end (when certain banal metaphors were being played with). The story is essentially a coming-of-age tale about a Nigerian girl called Ada who has gods (ogbanje) living inside her. At first there are lots of them and they are represented by the pronoun 'we' (you can see where this is going, right?) but then one of them (Asughara) comes forward and becomes more dominant. Like I said, I was really enjoying it, the intriguing notion of these beings having some not insignificant influence over Ada and being a spiritual protection against the world (reminded me a little of 'Discovery of Heaven by Mulisch). It was an interesting idea and one which, with some subtlety, hinted at an obvious mental health allegory. But then Asughara comes forward and 'forces' Ada to start having promiscuous violent sex with a variety of (bad) men and you get the distinct impression that Ada (or is it Akwaeke) wants you to believe that this isn't her doing... it's the Asughara's doing. Then along comes another god (St Vincent) and he wants to have sex with the same gender, you see. And that also isn't Ada's doing. Because nothing is. And then she wants to get her breasts removed and she wants to have more promiscuous sex and... oh for Christ's sake! I remember reading Normal People by Sally Rooney and wondering why women kept writing books about pursuing aggressive sex with men but moaning about the consequences as though they were not entirely involved in the process. Well, this book made me wonder again. It's all such self-indulgent nonsense. Nothing is my responsibility and I am the result of trauma and blah blah blah. I am special, a unique lifeform that has never been seen by humanity before. Please notice my specialness. I am neurodivergent. There's something different about me. Look, young people. I'm gonna tell you something now that might shock you. You know how there were people slopping about in the mud in the 12th century. Well, guess what: THOSE PEOPLE ALSO THOUGHT THEY WERE SPECIAL. Anyway, I don't want my ranting to sound like I disliked the book, it was well written and quite engaging. But Christ, spare me this identity garbage. It's so unutterably boring. 7/10

Babbitt (1922) Sinclair Lewis There have been many books that explore the banality of modernity, the repetitious slog of capitalist existence, the ennui and boredom that comes from living in such a comfortable environment of security and status quo. Usually they involve a mid-life crisis or a sweeping change in worldview. Well, this book covers all that ground but has the added distinction of being one of the first to address any of these issues. And what's more, Lewis also has the foresight to predict what's coming for the rest of us, the relentless march into a dull, poetry-less swamp of regurgitated consumption and numbness and the (dead behind the eyes) mediocrity of modern living. That being said, he does all this with a rather whimsical and even comic tone. Had he gone for something a little more weighty and bleak I might have enjoyed it significantly more. As it is, the book always skirts around the edges of its own themes and plays things for laughs. Lewis gives us a mercurial man (George F. Babbitt) living a standard middle-class life and infuses the narrative with joviality and silliness. Admittedly, this is due to Babbitt's own personality and demeanour (so it makes sense) but the fact remains it reduces the story's impact a little and makes everything somewhat comical and trivial (too much for my tastes). George is married with three kids and works in real estate. He is a Republican and a member of various well-to-do clubs. It's only with his breakdown that he questions any of this and (briefly) descends into chasing girls and embracing (equally conformist and performative) radical politics. The fact that his friend Paul Reisling has experienced a similar (but more consequential) breakdown is also a triggering factor. He begins to question his life. He begins to feel the weight of a cold and empty modernity on his shoulders. The book feels very contemporary. By which I mean it feels like it was written in the '50s. All of the capitalist trappings of that particular time, the kitchen appliances, cars, movies, fast food, and straight-laced culture. But this book was published in 1922 and you can see that Lewis is not only crticising that period but also (quite accurately) pointing out what is to come. This might be how upper middle-class Babbitt lives his life now but it's also how we will all live in the future. Yes, the torment of nothingness he endures will be everyone's in the future. We will all stare at our partners with boredom, grow tired of the repetition, wonder what any of it amounts to, and grapple in the dark for any kind of answer. We will ALL be so thoroughly bored by life. Anyway, I feel sad now. So I'm off to McDonalds. Then work. Then blah blah blah blah. A great book. 8/10

Loved The Midnight Bell. The Siege of Pleasure gave some background to Jenny but wasn't as good. And The Plains of Cement was a nice (albeit sad) conclusion.

Belt

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