Hux

The Obscene Bird of Night (1970) Jose Donoso Where to begin? I suppose with the fact that it's extremely difficult to enjoy a book when there's nothing to latch onto, nothing solid that you can grab, with both hands, and ingest in a way that makes the thing come alive. It's like trying to grab hold of a piece of air. I think there was only one chapter (towards the beginning) where I did get a momentary glimpse of sanity and could actually cling to something tangible but this vanished almost immediately. The structure is chaotic from start to finish and any logic or coherency you might find is either accidental or located in madness. As far as the story is concerned the only meaningful narrative I could find (and I'm still not entirely certain about this) revolved around a man called Mudito (who occasionally has other names and other physical forms) who lives in a weird little enclosed square of witches and orphans and these witches are either controlling him (or vice versa) and he is their child or creation (or vice versa) and he is potentially a monster (an imbunche in Chilean culture) or at least turning into one, and there's a girl called Iris who gets pregnant and he is both the father and the child but also... he isn't. And there are other characters who come and go (but I really didn't know who they were) and then there's a guy called Humberto (but he's also Mudito). Then there's Jeronimo who has a deformed son and wants him to be raised in this same place of misfits so that his son feels less weird. Oh and Jeronimo and Mudito might also be the same person. So yeah... things are happening... it's a fever dream of incoherent madness and even when you momentarily know what's happening and who people are, the very next chapter morphs them into something, or someone, else until everything is a blur of static and white noise. These people seem to be trapped outside of time and exist only in the minds of the narrator (who himself only exists in someone else's mind) and nothing is ever remotely stable or fixed. Got that? Good then I shall continue... It's all over the place. Even when the book is weirdly compelling (such as when the old lady pretends to be Iris's baby and suckles on her tits before they massage her old-lady vagina??) the book is hard to stay focused on. It's so difficult to maintain eye contact with this thing. But then, I suppose that's the point. And Donoso admits as much in moments of lucidity... It's all very interesting stuff but as I said at the start, it's very difficult to enjoy any of this when you can't latch onto anything. I never had a strong sense of what was happening or who these people were. Without that, it's extremely difficult to care. Why would I invest in such a (long) book if I get so very little back? Reading and watching some of the positive reviews of this book is eye opening; people will admit that they found it a slog, that it could have had hundreds of pages removed without losing anything, that it was impossible to follow, but then they'll finish their review by saying.. it's a masterpiece!! Do these people not know what the word masterpiece means? They sound like battered wives defending their husband's violent behaviour because he happens to be wearing a really nice suit. It's bizarre. People are so desperate for literature to matter beyond mere reading experience that they will imbue books which, by their own admission, are unpleasant to get through, as magnificent. Plus the fact that Donoso can clearly write is a factor. But so what? If I go to a urinal and see some beautifully written and profound graffiti on the wall, it doesn't change the fact that I'm surrounded by shhhhhhh and wee. That Donoso can write only makes this worse (like all those talented writers who, having read Joyce and seen how much respect he commands, choose to waste their talents on banal stream-of-consciousness drivel. Some may even tell you that it's playing with themes regarding the novel and what constitutes plot, character, etc, challenging those expectations. But again, that's like me making you eat a turd and telling you that I'm challenging the bourgeoisie expectations of what food can be. In the bin with that pretentious crap! This might be a good time to confess that I absolutely despise magical realism. I mean, I just utterly despise it. I remember reading Pedro Paramo and thinking... well, at least this ethereal weirdness is short. But this one is NOT short. It never ends. It's like Donoso read Sabato's On Heroes and Tombs and ignored all the reality and said, I'm gonna focus on those parts of the book where obsession spirals into an incoherent mess of nightmarish surrealism and drag it out until the reader loses their fudgeing mind. Its's a book worth investigating but one which, I assure you, can only ever disappoint (even if you like it). As such the only people I can recommend this book to are people who genuinely love magical realism (you sickos!) or hipsters (so they can impress their wife Susan and their boyfriend Steve all at once). Otherwise, for me, it's a book that I just couldn't find any love for. If I read this for a thousand years (a form of hell no doubt), I would still never enjoy it. I might understand it better. But I still wouldn't like it. 3/10

Brian (2023) Jeremy Cooper I've always had a soft spot for a particular genre of book and that genre is... 'oddball men with poor social skills who fixate on a thing whilst allowing their lives to pass them by.' It's a very specific genre and yet one which, more often than you'd think, comes along quite frequently. And thank goodness because they always speak to me in some way. And so here is another entry, this time about a bloke called Brian. And I loved it. The writing really appealed to me, was so easy to read, and insightful, and the subject matter was extremely engaging. The book begins by sparing us the banal details of his youth and early adult life; instead we jump straight into his life when Brian is in his late thirties. Because this is the point in his life when he begins to take an interest in films (especially arty, foreign language films), an interest that will gradually become an obsession. He visits the BFI every day after working another dull day in his office job which only briefly gets fleshed out. He has colleagues but only casually knows (or cares about) them. His family are non-existent; and he has, despite being open to the possibility of either gender, no sex life to speak of. It isn't explicitly declared but there does seem to be a potential for Brian to be autistic (cliched yes, but often accurate). And so he works, reads, travels by bus, eats at the same restaurant, watches the football, and consumes new films each day at the BFI. Understandably, there are other oddballs like him, equally nerdy and obsessive, who also regularly watch films at the BFI, and he comes to know most of them, even regarding them as (albeit distant) friends. Jack (a connoisseur of film scores) in particular becomes a confidante. Brian develops a specialist interest in Japanese cinema whereby he becomes the groups resident expert. As the book goes along, and Brian ages, into his fifties, sixties, seventies, you're essentially given a catalogue of views and opinions regarding works by all manner of disparate filmmakers (all excellently done). There is something appealing in the way Cooper mirrors Brian's intricate and obsessive knowledge by offering these film (and actor) criticisms throughout the book. In fact, it's hard not to conclude that this is precisely what the book is about -- male isolation and the fetishisation of things. None of the film buffs are women of course. Why would they be? This kind of solipsistic love of stuff seems to be a uniquely male experience. There are subtle hints to this at various points in the book: It's also hard not to conclude that Cooper is celebrating this male world of fixation, especially if it possesses some degree of artistic merit. I tend to disagree here and consider Brian's love of film as inconsequential as anything else. Brian has wasted his life. But then... who doesn't? Even as he ages and begins to develop physical ailments (including poor eyesight), he takes refuge in his life choices which, from an outsider's perspective, can seem rather trivial. But the best existential novels always leave you wondering why. What was the point? Did any of it matter? There seems to be a spate of novels these days (presumably due to women's dominance of publishing) that focus on female oddballs. But these books always focus on feelings, attitudes, and mental health. In such times, we are reliably told that men should deal with their mental health more like women, by talking and exploring emotions, and looking inward. But I think this is awful advice. Men need to do things, fix things, obsess over things -- books, football, sex, war, anything. If you know a man who is depressed, don't ask him to talk about it. Ask him to fix the fence in your back garden. Things are important. Things matter. Fences always need fixing. Men understand things. Brian's life is unquestionably a pointless waste of time. But it's his life to waste (and he does so in an appropriate way to him). And the bottom line is... I like oddballs who waste their lives (without all that mental health narcissism and blubbering). Brian is more discerning, and definitely worth getting to know. 9/10

Camera (1989) Jean-Phillippe Toussaint Here's a crazy idea: how about a novel about the trivial banalities of living, the day-to-day mediocrity and smallness of things. After all, what could be more existential than a novel about the very boring and mundane, the dull and ordinary? On paper, this ought to have appealed to me. And I did enjoy a lot of the book (I especially liked Toussaint's writing when he allowed his prose to flow), but after a while, you need something... anything... to give the piece a little more meat on its bones. But the tone remains the same throughout. The narrator tells us about meeting a woman at the drivers ed office, then he tells us about going to get groceries. Then he tells us about the car breaking down, needing some propane, trying to find the Metro, what the weather is like. Then he and Pascale (the woman) go to London for a trip and eat in a restaurant, and look at things, and say things, and do things. It's all very minimalist, the insignificant aspects of life we all endure, with no discernible plot and no desire to waste any time introducing one. It's just an average man, living an average life. And THAT'S where we acquire the existential qualities of this novel. Because what could be more existential than merely existing? It's a nice idea and the book has a gentle feel (some may even be tempted to describe it as charming). It reminded me of a few things. Autumn Rounds, The Sundays of Jean Desert. But those books had different qualities when it came to the existential themes (the latter in particular being more thought provoking in my opinion). This book is, at face value, a very quiet novella about a man meeting a woman and doing dull, normal things. That's it... that's your lot! While that does indeed cover the basics in regards to a reflective novel exploring existential ideas, it ultimately was a little too lightweight for my liking. There were periods where the writing was really fluid and crisp, and I would have liked more of that, but the book is too busy offering tedious aspects of an average life, the classic humdrum of western existence, that it doesn't get to dwell too long on those beautiful sentences very often. Which is a shame because that's the book's best feature. Fundamentally, I don't think I will ponder this one for very long. Short and sweet. Easy to read. An odd little book to be sure. But ultimately underwhelming. 5/10

I've signed up to it now but I already dislike the layout. It feels like there's a lack of people and it's tricky to navigate. Will give it a few months and see if it's worth bothering with.

1982 Janine (1984) Alasdair Gray A man named Jock McLeish is alone in a hotel room ruminating on his life. He is suicidal, contemplating his past, his lovers, his wife, his parents, his failures. Sometimes he fantasises about a variety of women (Janine being one of them), and he tells stories about these women and their sexual adventures in between telling stories of his actual life. The first third of this book was just magnificent, so unique and inventive, so clever and entertaining. Gray brilliantly interweaves reality and fantasy making the reading experience a joy, the narrative vibrant and alive, full of intrigue and originality. He manages to make you want to know more about both his real life experiences and, very successfully, his made-up stories too -- you are enthralled by both and the switch from one to the other makes the book an absolute joy to read. There's a story, for example, about one of his fictional women (named Superb) where she is cheating on her husband and going to meet a man. She is stopped by the police and taken to the station in a surreal arrest that combines sexual fantasy with comical farce. But then Jock returns to his real life story for a while and we take a break from that narrative. Then he goes back to it but this time instead of being stopped by the police, she meets her lover and we get an entirely new, improvised story that goes in a completely different direction than it did before The whole thing works effectively to make the piece always feel fresh and interesting. You get sucked into his life and his fantasies. Like I said, the first third is just fantastic. But then, sadly, as the book goes along, it starts to outstay its welcome. The very premise of the book is somewhat abandoned. The deeper you get, the less frequent these fantastical stories become and by the halfway point, Gray has essentially focused most of his attention on Jock's parents, his work life, his ex-wife, his first girlfriend, Denny, and the countless other aspects of his real life. I kept getting bored and waiting for Janine to return, or Superb, or any of the other fictional creations he might conjure but their presence becomes increasingly sparse and the book starts to drag. Eventually, it even begins to feel a little self-indulgent as Jock (or is it Gray?) continue to tell you rather banal things from his own life which are very rarely interesting. A lot of writers seem to fall into this trap; they become a little solipsistic and self-serving, failing to realise that what they're saying is only interesting to them. Sure, a story about THAT man going to the shop for some milk isn't very interesting but a story about me - a great writer who can make his life fascinating with sublime prose - going to the shop for some milk would be mesmerising! Gray gets sidetracked by the real life elements of Jock McLeish, and the memory of Janine and Superb gradually begins to fade. I wanted more of them both (or even the less developed Big Momma character). I wanted Gray to follow through with the idea more fully and break the narrative up with these entertaining interludes, these flights of sexual fancy, but he chooses instead to focus more on Jock's real life which, in truth, isn't that interesting at all. His time working as a security installation man, his failed marriage, or an especially dull part of the book where he is working in the theatre (I think... I was tuning out by this point) all slow things down to a standstill. I wish Gray had stuck with the premise. It was fun and original, had a unique perspective, almost surreal and magical (momentarily very reminiscent of Andrew Sinclair's wildly unique book 'Gog'). But the book loses momentum as it goes along and gets a little bogged down in the mundane qualities of Jock which left me a little bored. Why start with such explosive concepts if you intend to defuse them? By the halfway point Janine is an afterthought, a dissipating character with little involvement in his fantasies or his mind. In fact, Superb probably gets more attention as the most prominent of his fictional creations. But she too is gradually left by the wayside in favour of the real women in his life. The book had the potential to be amazing. But it loses its way. Gray is patently a writer I need to learn more about and hopefully his inventive style and voice will resonate with me more in his other works. I'll probably read Lanark at some point but avoid Poor Things until after the film stuff has died down. The man is clearly a great writer and worth investigating. This book had me for a while (really HAD ME) but then, unfortunately, it lost me. Nonetheless, this is still very highly recommended. Unique and different in a world that is often tediously predictable. 7/10

Review posted January 2 - 1982 Janine (Alasdair Gray) 7/10 Review posted January 3 - Camera (Jean-Phillippe Toussaint) 5/10 Review posted January 6 - Brian (Jeremy Cooper) 9/10 Review posted January 10 - The Obscene Bird of Night (Jose Donoso) 3/10

Your favourite book cover of 2024. Probably The Sisters Brothers by Patrick deWitt Your most read author of 2024. I think deWitt, Houellebecq, and Simenon all had two entries this year. Your book that wasn't worth bothering with in 2024 (my 'Duffer of the Year'). Eileen by Moshfegh and Study for Obedeince by Bernstein. The book you most wanted to read in 2024 but never actually got around to. 1982 Janine by Alasdair Gray (Will be my first book of 2025). Your biggest literary let-down of 2024 (my 'Biggest Disappointment of the Year). Under the Volcano by Lowry and Concrete by Berhard. Your discovery of the year (book, author, genre, publisher etc) Dissipation HG - Guido Morselli The Book of Lies Trilogy - Agota Kristof I Who Have Never Known Men - Jacquiline Harpman Your recommended classic of 2024. The Red and the Black - Stendhal Your favourite literary character of 2024. Frank Freidmaier - The Snow Was Dirty Your fiction book of the year 2024. I Who Have Never Known Men Your author of the year for 2024. Agota Kristof Your overall book of the year, 2024 I Who Have Never Known Men Surprise of the year Children Crossing by Verity Bargate

Portnoy's Complaint (1969) Philip Roth If someone asked me to describe my idea of hell, it would be listening to a New York Jew whining about his sex life. And so here we are, a book where, in a full length monologue, the main character, Alex Portnoy, sits on a psychiatrist's couch and tells him (and us) his life story, most of which revolves around sex and masturbation. Had I known that this was a comic novel, I would have skipped it since, not once, in my entire life, have I ever read a book that ever made me laugh; at best, you might get a smirk out of me or, if you're lucky, a very post-modern expression of air while the words: 'that was clever' rattle around my noggin. But that's it. That's as good as it gets. In my experience, comic novels are painfully unfunny and generally a mess of self-indulgent (often juvenile) crap. Much like A Confederacy of Dunces, you either find the character hilarious or you don't; and if you don't, you inevitably find him unbearable. The early chapters about childhood are mildly diverting, his obsession with masturbation and sticking it in everything he can find (including an apple core and slab of liver) are just disgusting enough to be entertaining. There was even a burgeoning smile as his mother complained about her friends and affirmed that she was naming no names only to follow this by literally naming several names. But that was as amusing as it ever got for me and thus, I was left with a rather indulgent and somewhat tiresome Jew shoving his neuroses down my throat whilst finding himself immensely entertaining and funny. I found him dull and repetitive, and the whole thing felt like a combination of bad stand-up, cliched psycho-analysis, and Woody Allen-esque buffoonery where ever sentence essentially ended with 'oy vey.' The stories he tells about his parents, his love life, his experiences all left me thoroughly cold and unmoved. I just didn't care. And so, again, you either find this guy immensely funny (and acquire some quality and entertainment in that) or you're left immensely irritated. I just don't like comic novels. They always fail to make me laugh and, inevitably when they fail, they only end up coming across as profoundly self-serving. And that's all this book really has -- that gimmick. The prose is basic, the plot non-existent. You're basically hanging everything on Portnoy as a character and his routine being enormously hilarious to you. As such, I would definitely recommend this book to people who do enjoy comic novels; because of that genre, I suspect this is actually pretty good. I personally just don't like them. They rarely resonate with me. A few moments of interest at the beginning aside (when it had more of a bildungsroman feel), this one simply never appealed to me. 4/10

Carrie's War.

So long, See You Tomorrow (1979) William Maxwell Occasionally, I will read a book and simply not enjoy it. But unlike other books I will come to the conclusion that it wasn't the book's fault, it was mine (I suspect this is a feeling other readers often experience). Generally I'm not a fan of blaming the reader - if a book doesn't resonate then it just doesn't resonate - but there are times when you just feel like it was more about you. I dunno. It was Christmas and I wasn't really focused and despite liking the opening pages and the prose, my mind wasn't taking much of it in (the deeper I got, the less engaged I became). The story opens with a murder and what follows is an explanation for that murder and its motivations. The narrator details how his friend Cletus and he drifted apart after Cletus' father apparently murdered a man named Lloyd Wilson. The book explores their childhood and the circumstances and it's wonderfully written but... I just got very bored in truth. Each time I went back to it, I was hoping this time... this time it will grab me. But it never did. I would describe this book as a very slow burn. Maxwell methodically investigates events to such a drawn out extent that it begins to feel more like memoir than fiction. I got the very distinct impression that this was more Maxwell exercising some personal demons from his real life and dealing with his own trauma via the telling of a fictionalised account. As such the book is very dry despite the excellent writing and takes a very simplistic story and drags it out into something that loses its shape. It felt very private, personal. But at no point was I remotely interested in any of it. I didn't care. This is a book that might justify giving it another try in the future. I don't know. 6/10

Not upsetting people seems to have taken precedence over education. In fact... over most things. The only Steinbeck I've read but a very good novella as I recall. Poor Lennie.

The Moustache (1986) Emmanuel Carrere There's nothing worse than a book that starts so well -- to the extent that you're convinced you're reading a new favourite -- but then descends into stale mediocrity. This book completely had me for the first two thirds and I was loving every second of it. It starts with a man in the bathroom pondering if she should shave his moustache off or not. He decides to do it and when his wife, Agnes, returns from shopping he waits to see her reaction. But there is no reaction, something which he concludes must be her playing a trick on him, pretending not to notice. They have dinner with two friends, Serge and Veronique, both of whom also fail to notice he has removed his moustache leading him to believe that they, in collusion with Agnes, have agreed to play along with this charade. But on the way home, in the car, he gets tired of the game and confronts Agnes only to discover that she insists he never had a moustache. Slowly but surely, he begins to grow paranoid and even contemplates that his wife is losing her mind, or playing a very intricate game, or worse, deliberately encouraging him to question his sanity, perhaps even have him locked up. Then the game accelerates at a pace, and, when discussing their trip to Java, his wife sighs and informs him that they have never been to Java. This spiralling sensation of unnerving madness then increases further when she also confirms that the two friends they had dinner with (Serge and Veronique) do not exist. And that his father, who he believes is alive, died many years ago. All of this results in him running away and believing that she is trying to poison his mind with lies. But why? What is the purpose? These first two thirds of the book are spectacular and I loved them. They brought to mind the Tenant and other eerie books about the fragile nature of reality. Just fantastic to read, gripping, odd, creepy, and fascinating. It had so much potential and was on course for becoming a book I utterly adored, exploring all those inner fears we have about the world turning against us at any moment, that we're puppets being toyed with by a reality that is capricious. So... good!! But then the book just goes off the deep end. He runs off to Hong Kong and the book simply meanders here, drowsily, repetitively, for the whole final third, with inane descriptions of him going back and forth on the ferry, walking around, changing hotels -- it's all very bland and unengaging; and it slows the book down almost to a halt. It was just so dull compared to everything that came before it. Such a letdown. The ending was equally disappointing. It offers no meaningful interpretation of events (whether it be hallucination, a deception, or something else). It isn't even very ambiguous. Essentially we're expected to believe that this was just a man having a psychotic breakdown, one without cause or solution. But this isn't how people have breakdowns in reality, only in literature. I wanted something more concrete or (preferably) something more vague and unsure. It doesn't really accomplish either and fails to truly reach the heights one hoped for at the beginning. All that Hong Kong nonsense was for nothing, and simply slowed everything down quite badly. Such a shame. The book had such a great start. I was so close to loving it. 7/10

Through The Night (2011) Stig Saeterbakken Narrated by a man named Karl who informs us, bluntly, and immediately, of the death of his son, Ole-Jakob, dropping us into a sudden fever of excitement and horror at such a terrible occurrence. Then the next chapter jumps back in time to when they were all a family and everything was fine. Once again, I am going to have to quote Rick and Morty. "We should start our stories where they begin, not start them where they get interesting." What follows is an unbearably dull (and painfully middle-class) story of Karl, a dentist, and how he meets his equally banal middle-class wife, Eva, and the children they have, and the affair Karl has with a woman called Mona; and then there's a great deal of navel-gazing and hand-wringing, and middle-class hijinks. I was actually enjoying the writing but found the content to be so unutterably tedious and indulgent. It felt, to me, that Saeterbakken was doing an awful impression of Kundera and mimicking the mundane qualities of The Unbearable Lightness of Being. But the problem is, this book (and the protagonist, Karl) simply aren't interesting enough. Tomas lives in a Communist country and is, without apology, an unpleasant and selfish man. But Karl lives in a comfortable western country and is endlessly presented (mostly by himself) as a good egg who only has noble intentions at heart. None of it remotely convinces or results in a worthwhile story. The death of his son feels like a plot (or rather a character study) convenience with nothing but cynicism and cliche at its source. I really did find it dull and derivative. Only the appearance of his sister, who writes boring middle-class novels, provided a modicum of entertainment. Then comes the final third. And suddenly the book transforms into something weird and fascinating, a mad dream of surreal panic and fear. It's utterly mesmerising and comes out of nowhere. Earlier in the book there is a throwaway comment (a story) about a house in Slovakia where people seeking answers go and are confronted by their darkness fears and their truest selves. The book ends with Karl actually going there and being tormented by the ongoing grief of his loss in a strange and unnerving manner. The book changes gear entirely, begins to swirl in waves of madness, and you're left isolated in a horror story of utter bleakness and despair. Where did this come from? Finally the book got good. But alas... far too late for me. Before any of that, however, we have to endure the most banal middle-class nonsense imaginable. As a book exploring grief it was full of cliches and mediocrity. As a book exploring the ennui and emptiness of a man's western life, it was too slow and meandering. Only at the end, when it became a bizarre ghost story, an existential nightmare (mildly reminiscent of Hesse's Steppenwolf), did it get interesting. But I was already checked out by then. Definitely worth a look though. 6/10

The Librarianist (2023) Patrick deWitt There's a joke in Rick and Morty where a man who has written a screenplay asks Morty to listen to it. The man starts telling the story which opens with an exciting scene then he says 'three weeks earlier.' Morty rolls his eyes and says: 'we should start our stories where they begin, not start them where they get interesting.' Anyhooo... this novel begins with Bob Comet, a man in his 70s who finds a confused woman in the local store and returns her to the retirement centre where she lives. He begins working there as a volunteer and, as he begins to build relationships, we discover that he was married in his youth to a woman named Connie but she left him for his best friend Ethan. This essentially (for some unknown reason) resulted in him never having another relationship (or sex) ever again. Don't ask me why -- seems a bit excessive. Then the book jumps back in time to that very period when he was in his 20s and he met both Connie and Ethan. Which brings us back to the problem of this book's formatting. I already know that his wife left him for his best friend because he ALREADY told me that in part one. All he's doing in part two is fleshing the story out a little, adding details which, in truth, aren't as significant as the primary fact that his wife left him for his best friend. So the whole section feels utterly redundant. Also in this section, he tells a throwaway story about how he ran away from home when he was 11 years old. This isn't remotely important until... Section three. Bob is now 11 and runs away from home, you see. We're going back in time again, you see. Anyway, he gets on the train and meets two actresses who take him under their wing. It's utterly banal and worthless. I did not care. Then we return to the present and you'll never guess what. That old woman he found in the store, remember her, that was his wife Connie (how could he possibly not recognise her?). Sigh. I mean... just no. I would give the book a much lower rating but for the fact that dewitt is very easy to read. So he has that going for him. This book is what's known as a character study which (through experience) I have discovered in just another way of saying... a book that's not very good. The truth is dewitt's writing is generally fun but it's simply not literary enough for this, not difficult nor complex, not suitable for this kind of attempted character study. He doesn't have the talent for it and should stick to plot driven stories with heavy dialogue (in my opinion). The book was immensely forgettable. 5/10

Skylark (1924) Dezsö Kosztolányi An odd duck of a book about the parents of an ugly duckling woman. Actually, duckling is misleading given that their daughter (Skylark) is 35 years of age. It's also a misleading title since the book is about them, not her. It opens with Skylark going away for the week to spend time with relatives. This week away allows the parents to spend more time outside of the house, go to restaurants, visit the theatre, all manner of activities which, due, in no small part, to Skylark's sensitive nature and unwillingness to venture beyond her daily comforts, they rarely do. It's presented as though Skylark is the one who is holding them back but as the book goes along, the father (drunk for the first time in years) announces to his wife that their daughter is... ugly. She cannot find a husband and is still at home at 35 and they are both weighed down by this truth and must face it. The mother is somewhat shocked at this outburst and the book balances between this being the cause of their frustrations or simply being their excuse for them. Written in 1924 but set in 1899, the book tells us that the parents are old despite only being in their 50s. But back then I guess that was old. Skylark is overweight, unattractive, and seemingly without any talents or gifts. The trend for children to remain infantilised and unable to fly the nest is a story we hear often about men (incels and the like) but not so much women, especially from this time period. It's hard not to assume the book is about the parents allowing their daughter's life to define them and, in turn, giving them the excuse they need to justify their own shortcomings. But I'm not entirely sure. That Skylark is the title of the book yet as a character she is only present in the first and last chapter (their week without her revealing the depths of the parents' misery and even shame regarding her) would suggest she is the least of their worries. Or maybe it's a simple satire on parenthood and the inevitability of disappointment. No-one wants to be ugly. But then... no-one wants to be the parents of the ugly, either. An interesting book to be sure, and nicely written, but ultimately I was never entirely engaged by it. It plods along and you do occasionally smirk but overall, it probably won't live too long in the memory. Truth be told, a genuine story about Skylark, a narrative about (or from) her perspective, probably would have been more to my liking. Poor cow. 6/10