Hux

Under Satan's Sun (1926) Georges Bernanos A book which is disjointed and bloated, hard to follow, and desperately trying to squeeze profound ideas into something which is ultimately clumsy and without structure. You never really sense any plot, just the rambling thoughts of characters engaging in spiritual crisis, ennui and torment. I barely recognised any semblance of a real person here, merely characters upon which to hang weighty burdens of human frailty. It was a slog to turn each page and I kept hoping for a momentary hook which never came. In fact, it was difficult to read even the most basic of sentences without desperately wanting Bernanos to inject something exciting or unexpected into it, even something coherent would do. I understand what he's doing but I never found a way to get into it. The book begins with a teenage girl, Mouchette, discovering she is pregnant and the father being incensed. Some cad or bounder, a lecherous aristocrat, has apparently done the deed. Almost immediately I was wondering when this was set (because Bernanos doesn't tell us) and I assumed it was the 17th century or something based on the small snippets of detail we get. But the book is exploring secular themes in contrast to religious ones so I think it might actually be the early 1900s (again, I don't know because the book is vague, distant, and blundering). But this first section is probably the only part of the book that's actually worth reading in terms of events and prose. After she cuts her own throat the book delves into even greater melodrama with the introduction of a young priest she met who uses this experience to embark on a career of performing miracles and battling demonic instinct whilst hoping to secure his soul against satan (then his evil twin arrives and has an affair with... no, that didn't happen but it might as well have). Then, in the final third, when I was already done with this thing, Bernanos introduces a novelist. It's all over the place and not in a good way. It also (I must confess) didn't help that this was yet another book I was hoodwinked into buying from Amazon which appeared to be a proper book but which was actually something printed in someone's garage in Bumfluff, Idaho, a huge brick with gigantic text and uninspired printing. Anyway... if awkward storytelling and the inner monologues of catholic priests excite you, then you might like this. I really didn't. I often see people describe books they dislike as uneven. I don't really know what that means. But I can tell you, and with some conviction, that this book was massively... uneven. 3/10

Frankenstein (1818) Mary Shelley It's difficult to review a book as well-known as this. Like many people, most of my information about the story had been absorbed through culture and film over the decades. The one thing I was expecting, for example, was a mad scientist in a spooky castle during a thunderstorm. That was NOT in the book. Instead, what we get is some chapters that are rarely seen in the films, and for good reason -- because they're rather dull. But also some great moments which are beautiful. As such, this was a unique reading experience. The story begins with a letter from a man named Robert Walton on a ship in the arctic which is attempting to find the north/west passage but which is currently surrounded by ice. He is writing to his sister Margaret and tells her about the day his crew saw a large man go by and then, later, when they found another man at death's door. This man turns out to be Victor Frankenstein and he eventually recounts his tale to Robert Walton (who in turn is telling it to his sister). Victor grew up with a step-sister and younger brother, went to university in Ingostadt, and developed an interest in the reanimation of life. I was expecting the chapter where he creates the monster to be noteworthy, dramatic, but it's actually rather vague and doesn't waste much time getting to the point; which is the creation of the monster (who almost immediately runs away). The monster lives in the woods and watches a family (and we get their extensive backstory too) before returning to Geneva where he kills Victor's younger brother, William. Victor catches up with him and he tells his tale, of his wretched sorrows and torment, his acquisition of language and thought, and he asks Victor to create a companion for him. Victor agrees and (for some reason) goes to the Orkney Islands to do this (this is also rarely in the films). But at the last minute, he changes his mind and the monster kills his best friend Clerval then later his wife Elizabeth (also his sister... who was adopted as a child and you can fully understand why this is rarely included in re-tellings). At which point Victor vows to track the creature down and kill him. This involves a vast journey all the way to the arctic where the ship first encountered him. There are SO many things to discuss here. Firstly, the large quantities of story which felt utterly redundant. Did I really need the backstory of the poor people he watches in the woods (the blind man's son fell in love with a rich Turkish man's daughter and there was a promise of marriage which was broken and this whole section goes on for a surprising amount of the book)? Did I really need all that waffle from the (shockingly articulate) monster? There are parts of the book that slightly drag it must be said, immersing themselves in the melodramatic romanticism which Shelley is clearly influenced by. Also, was it the norm to raise orphans alongside your children then be completely fine with them getting married? I guess so. There are large swathes of this book which you could easily cut out without losing much of the major themes. It was also slightly bewildering that Victor wasn't enraged from the very moment his younger brother was slain by the monster. Plus, why does the monster keep murdering people yet expect sympathy? He does his best to reason that it's the torment of being made flesh but it felt slightly absurd to me. His answer to everything seems to be... kill somebody else, it will make you feel better. Then we have my biggest gripe, the formatting of this story. I suspect this was just how a lot of books were written back then but the idea that a man writes a letter to his sister which includes the story that a man is telling him, which in turn, includes letters which that man also recounts, verbatim, in his tale, plus the story told to him by another man, the monster... I mean, part of me is impressed by this presentation technique but part of me thinks... really? Imagine if you wrote a letter to your sister and it included a story a man told you, and his story included letters from his sister (which he reads to you in the story as though they're actual letters) and... look, all I'm saying is... it became slightly silly. I was always conscious of this odd framing device all the way through. Anyway... The book's prose is always very high quality, often sublime, wonderfully articulate and sophisticated (even newly created monsters speak eloquently like fancy professors in the 1800s). Some of it was very enjoyable to read but mostly I found the book a little slow, dry, and overdone. For each exquisite section of writing, you do wonder what the point is. Shelley dwells on aspects that seem slightly redundant, and the book drags its feet all the way to the very end. It was only when Victor and the monster met that it truly came to life. And it goes without saying that the book has a melodramatic feel, the influence of romantic writing being very evident. But despite all these misgivings, there is something glorious here, a real exploration of big themes and profound ideas, something very moving, with lots to say about destroying our creators, our murderous nature, our need for companionship and purpose, our isolation as creatures in search of a missing God. Yes it was a slog and yet... and yet... I still came away from this experience quite powerfully moved. Shelley taps into something quite stunning, something painfully human, something that will continue to excite our imaginations forever (del Toro 's new film version is testament to this and while it took liberties, I think he fundamentally got the spirit of the piece). It also occurred to me that the film Alien: Prometheus was a retelling of this story (the engineers create us, want to destroy us, then run away from us). It was only recently that I realised this was where the film's title came from... a Modern Prometheus. But I digress... Ultimately, one must conclude that the book is a genuine masterpiece (even with its flaws). It resonates because it asks powerful questions: "What am I? Where do I belong? Will love alleviate my suffering?" But predominantly because it asks the biggest question of all: "Why did my creator give me life, force me to suffer, then abandon me?" It's enough to make you cry, and walk away, slowly, into the cold arctic night. 8/10

Hard Rain Falling. A gay love story which moved me more than I thought it would.

Requiem: A Hallucination (1991) Antonio Tabucci An Italian writer (take a guess) wanders through the streets of Lisbon where he intends to meet a dead poet (implied to be Fernando Pessoa) and, as you can imagine, the narrative is highly ethereal and dream-like, a hallucinatory story of strange people, poetry, art, and the manifestation of past memories of friends and lovers. It's beautifully written and I enjoyed it as a curiosity, especially the romanticisation of Pessoa, a writer I love whose obscurity was coming to an end in no small part due to the works of people like this, and I liked the general themes exploring the future of literature, the laying of ghosts to rest, and the mercurial nature of the narrative (a surreal, fantasy walk through a mysterious, almost fictional version of Lisbon). I would certainly recommend it as a novelty item, a magical realism influenced narrative, written in a style that is still highly accessible but also fairly original. That all being said, it ultimately felt a little trivial in the end. The book is wonderfully written, has an amusing, occasionally haunting aspect, and is perfectly enjoyable to read, but ultimately, it was a rather straight-forward affair which might be best described as a nice holiday indulgence, something to pass the time on a beach. I enjoyed it but... I'm not sure it will stay with me. 5/10

The Lost Honour of Katherina Blum (1974) Heinrich Boll The story of a young woman in West Germany (set in early seventies) who, after helping her communist lover, a man named Ludwig Gotten, escape from the police, later shoots and kills a journalist called Totges who works for a tabloid which has sensationalised the story and caused mayhem in the proceedings. The book is written as a kind of report (by whom I do not know), in the fashion of an episode of Law & Order, where the narrator goes back and forth, both in time of the more noteworthy events, and in terms of potential motivations and clues, looking at evidence, transcribing testimonies, etc. I was pretty gripped by the first few pages, the style very compelling, a very fast paced inquiry into murder and intrigue, into the political machinations of the era (the Red Army being all the rage at the time), and all of this presented to the reader, perhaps deliberately, in a very tabloid manner. At first I found it very entertaining, the presentation in particular, but as it went along, and more characters were introduced (such as the Blornas and her ex husband), I was increasingly less interested and gradually found the style a little grating, even a tad cartoonish. It was a unique attempt at something I haven't really seen before, but ultimately, it all felt a little lightweight and trivial. Given the importance of the content, I was surprised by the way it was delivered, an omniscient (police/tabloid) narrator musing on the facts of the case, like a more thoughtful episode of Murder She Wrote or Columbo. It starts well but slowly becomes a little forced and unnatural. Easy to read and conveniently short but I was never very drawn into the events or that invested. Not much more I can say about this one. 4/10

East of Eden (1952) John Steinbeck Books like this don't seem to exist anymore; a novel of articulate and immensely creative prose combined with a dense plot, myriad characters, and profoundly human themes. I honestly don't think modern writers are frankly capable of this kind of writing anymore. Now we must choose between mainstream fluff designed for Tik-Tok brains or pretentious Nobel prize winning drivel where an author repeats the same sentence eighty-six times until we clap like witless buffoons. This calibre of literature does seem increasingly inaccessible and for good reason. It is, of course, absolutely magnificent. It is a sweeping and epic tale of two families over two generations (slightly more in fact), and opens with a third person narrator (who later turns out to be the son of one of the characters) telling us about the primary location for the novel, the Salinas Valley in California. This is where we meet The Hamilton family with patriarch William and matriarch Liza. Next we move to the east and meet Cyrus Trask, a civil war veteran (barely) who has a son named Charles, then later another son with a different woman named Adam. Adam and Charles grow up to be rivals, to be very different, Charles possessing a darkness inside him where Adam is more sensitive and thoughtful. And yet despite these differences, the brothers do love each other. As they grow, Charles stays on their small farm while his brother, Adam, is essentially forced to follow his father's footsteps and join the army. After this we meet the character which, for me, was by far the most compelling and probably the most important -- Cathy Ames. Almost immediately, Steinbeck tells us that she was born with something missing, some part of her soul perhaps broken. He later amends this (presumably to avoid alienating the growing crowd who embrace the idea of people being 'different' for genetic reasons beyond their control) to suggest that she may simply have been misunderstood in her overall nature. Either way, people are defined by nature (even if nurture is applicable). Adam falls in love with her and they move to the Salinas Valley. Here she gives birth to two twin sons, Caleb and Aron. As soon as they're born she wants out, leaving Adam to go run a whorehouse while he raises the boys. Caleb and Aron grow up believing their mother is dead, a state of affairs which the Trask family servant (a Chinese man named Lee who it's hard not to adore) thinks is a mistake. Sure enough, Caleb discovers the truth and later tells Aron. What follows is an exploration of good versus evil. Do we inherit our darkness from our parents? Can we overcome this deterministic influence and choose to be good? Caleb is convinced that the darkness inside his mother is also in himself and he resents his brother, Aron, just as Charles resented his brother, Adam. The themes of guilt and identity are strong, as are the repetitive qualities of existence, and, as you might guess from the names of these characters, all of this is very heavily informed by a Christian tradition. The book is glorious. I loved reading it, every page a delight. It's probably longer than it needs to be but even when it drags, you are always reading high quality prose, thoughtful, intelligent, and profound. I was initially gripped by Adam's story but I must confess every single time Cathy (or Kate as she later calls herself) is on the page, the book comes to life, vibrantly so, and seemingly intensifies its power over the reader. She is a remarkable character, the embodiment of this dichotomy of nature versus nurture. As much as we might not like it, Cathy is missing some human element which no amount of experience can explain. The sad fact is that there are people out there like this. And while we might be more inclined to pathologise these people and their behaviour today (often to our own detriment), it would be foolish not to acknowledge that... some people just want to watch the world burn. I loved Cathy. She was abhorrent and cruel, always attempting to be in control, a sincere sociopath, never willing to be vulnerable or weak. Yet she was utterly compelling. I think she was the axis around which all of these stories pivoted. There was darkness in Charles but he saw it, disliked it. There was darkness in Caleb but he saw it and disliked it; and there was darkness in Cathy but she would mock the very notion of its presence, reject the idea of it being anything other than her own impressive will and intelligence. We can endeavour to understand or justify her behaviour but we will, in my opinion, always fail. I got lost in this book, was completely taken away. I entered their world as a visitor and genuinely became so thoroughly immersed that I lost myself. I'm back out now but will always carry a piece of this remarkable work with me. What books can say that now (certainly via the method of exquisite prose and generational plot and character)? I don't want to keep crapping on modern literature but just like Cathy, it too seems to lack something. This book was amazing, and it was a privilege to know these people and their struggles. There is darkness in everyone but we can always choose our own path. Or can we? I actually don't know. The more times that goes by, the more unclear this becomes. 10/10

The Flowers of Bufoonery (1935) Osamu Dazai I found this book curiously moving, even profound, in its treatment of the aftermath of one successful (and one failed) suicide. There is a small section of the book 'No Longer Human' where the protagonist, Yozo Oba, and a woman attempt suicide together by jumping off a cliff into the sea. She succeeds, he fails. While that book contains his life story before and after that incident (almost treating it as an after-thought), this one focuses on the same event but compresses into a novella (so we get a little more backstory). Oba is saved and taken to a sanatorium for four days and must confront the fact that his lover is dead and he is not. Meanwhile, his friends Hida and Kosuge come to stay with him, try to raise his spirits, while there is a nurse called Mano who appears to have developed a connection with Oba. On top of this we have the rather glorious narrative game that Dazai plays where he is peaking directly to us, the reader, throughout the book, a meta-narrative where he overtly makes himself a character who is commenting, even critiquing, his own work. He starts one chapter, for example, with the words: 'welcome to sadness, population one,' but later criticises this line (as well as others... beautiful feelings make for bad literature etc) as corny or poor writing. It's a nice touch, a strange personal commentary from Dazai who is simultaneously telling us about Oba but also acknowledging (very heavily at the start) that the main character is nothing more than a thinly veiled version of himself. Dazai has contempt for Yozo and Yozo has contempt for himself. Layer upon layer. His friends try to lighten the mood and they treat the death of the girl as a mere unfortunate incident but this is simply a method for concealing real feelings. These men all know that something horrible and meaningful has occurred but cannot fathom accepting it without worrying that it will consume them; so they make jokes, play cards, mock the very idea that this matters, and joke about Yozo potentially being prosecuted for her murder. Even when Yozo's brother arrives, with a degree of reality in tow, his presence is more focused on speaking to the husband of the dead woman (giving him money to drop the matter) and ensuring that his brother retains his freedom. Given that this is all based on real events, you can sense the trauma and guilt dripping across each page. Dazai (and Yozo) acknowledge the tragedy but cannot put it into meaningful words, can only wallow in misery and subterfuge, keep it all at arms length. These distractions are, in fact, twice referred to as flowers of buffoonery and they reiterate that Yozo is not healing and probably never will. Dazai himself uses the narrative to reflect upon his mistakes and laugh at his own cowardice. Yet there's always an immense sense of pain and sorrow present. I thought this was quite a beautiful story (it helps when you add the context of No Longer Human although this was actually written first). At no point does anyone want to hear about mental health, at no point does anyone want to consider why these two souls wanted to end their lives. They all behave as though a mere accident has occurred, and not an expression of something more profound. We must not dwell on such things it seems. Honestly, for such a small book, the trauma condensed into four days at a sanatorium, with little dialogue, little plot, and little (deliberate) insight into the mental health experiences of the protagonist and his lover, this book was very powerful. It's sad, pathetic, and also (interestingly) very human. I could say more, so much more, but no... that's all I have. 8/10

Last Days in Cleaver Square (2021) Patrick McGrath I loved the two previous McGrath's novels I read (Spider and Asylum), both of which dealt with mental health (a subject he's very good on) and had narrators who were very unreliable. It worked especially well in Spider where the unreliable nature of the protagonist was a major feature in the plot. In Asylum, however, it was a little more clumsy and you could certainly see the cracks, by which I mean Patrick McGrath -- when all is said and done -- is, in truth, not actually a very good writer. He can write to the extent that it's entertaining but like I said, it's often clumsy and cliched. Nonetheless, I enjoyed both those books. I only bring this up to demonstrate that I generally like Patrick McGrath and his writing style because when it comes to this book, I honestly thought it was rather abysmal. Those cracks which were only noticeable in Asylum are significantly more evident here which is strange because this novel actually feels more lightweight, like an attempt by McGrath to do something a little more picaresque and charming. But I found it very dry and meandering. It's set in 1975 when reports of General Franco's health are poor and the protagonist, an elderly poet named Francis McNulty is having visions of Franco in the street and in his bedroom, and, unsurprisingly, this all serves to force him into reminiscing about his time when he volunteered to fight against the Spanish Fascists in the 1930s. He now lives in Cleaver Square in London with his daughter, Gilly, a woman who is soon to be married, and she is trying to get her ageing father to consider moving in with her and her new husband. Meanwhile there's a Guardian journalist who is writing about McNulty's experiences in Spain, and the book is likewise triggering a great many ghosts of his past. Honestly this whole thing was very slow, dull, unremarkable, and utterly forgettable. This is McGrath's most recent work so it might not be his best (the previous two I read being from the late 80s/early 90s). It's actually written in a more accessible style with short chapters and more restrained prose. But I found it uninteresting and bland, none of it engaging in the slightest, and certainly without the qualities that made me interested in his earlier work. Yes, I suppose there is a mental health angle to it too but not in the same way. I also don't understand why he wrote it as a novel then at the very end had an editor's note claiming these were excerpts from a diary. Then why not just write it as a diary? I guess this was another attempt at revealing an unreliable narrator but given that it was McNulty's first person narrative anyway that was already established. Regardless, it added nothing, and I found the book extremely forgettable. 4/10

The Woman in Black (1983) Susan Hill A man in his fifties named Arthur Kipps is listening to ghost stories told by his step children. They ask him to participate but he is uncomfortable with the request and leaves the room. He then proceeds to explain that he had an experience in his youth which traumatised him and which he will write down. What follows is the story of Arthur as a young lawyer being asked to go north to a small village where he must settle the affairs of a recently deceased woman called Mrs Drablow. Her house is a creepy mansion by an estuary, endlessly covered in mist and damp, the sea fret drenching the walls and creating an isolated and spooky home. While attending the funeral of Mrs Drablow, he sees a woman, young but emaciated, wearing black. When he asks his colleague and others about her, people are uncomfortable and disturbed and refuse to speak. Eventually, Mr Kipps must spend a couple of nights at the house alone to better progress with his task of dealing with Mrs Drablow's affairs and papers. Well, it started well. It's nicely written and I was enjoying it but for goodness sake, this whole book is a lot of teasing. There comes a point where you just think... get on with it!! I don't know if this is the standard approach for ghost stories (endless atmosphere building and seeing/hearing things) but it became slightly dull for me after a while. It's nicely written but I felt like it was a VERY short story being deliberately dragged out. The book was, however, momentarily saved by the introduction of the dog, Spider, and I loved the fact that he wasn't alone in the house but had this adorable, scrappy companion alongside him to investigate the creepy noises. But as the suspense gathered and the ultimate conclusion came hurtling towards us, I was never that engaged or enthralled. Plus, it seemed (to me) that the ending was rather blatantly signposted. Hill makes the mistake of beginning the book with Arthur talking about his wife Esme, and the three children she has from a previous marriage. Then, when the real narrative kicks in, and we jump back in time to when he was a young man, we discover that he has a fiance called Stella. I mean, it seemed pretty obvious to me where this was going (or at least that this discrepancy would play a part... otherwise why include it?). It was just a question of when and how. But if you like this sort of thing, I would certainly recommend it. Personally, I found it slightly frustrating as it dragged the story out with chapter after chapter of yet more atmosphere building and intrigue. How much drizzle and fog and the sound of crying babies does a book need? I mean, it does a reasonable job in that regard but there comes a point where I wanted it to give me something more. Yes, very good atmosphere (reminiscent of Embers by Marai) with lots of mist and unsettled villagers giving you funny looks, but ultimately a very thin plot if you ask me. It may simply be that I'm not a fan of this genre. 6/10

Farewell, Earth's Bliss (1966) D. G Compton I often say that my guilty pleasure in literature is post-apocalyptic fiction (and it is) but I've been trying to expand my general sci-fi consumption lately albeit with the desire that the books should explore something existential or something philosophical (I'm not that interested in aliens and sweeping space operas). So yeah, something small but intriguing, and this writer's name came my way. It was probably a very good choice because the book does not dwell on epic sci-fi themes and instead tells a rather straight-forward and small story of hardship. The book opens with several characters (I think 22) aboard a space ship heading for Mars. These people are convicts being sent to a penal colony settlement they know very little about. They are given biblical names (Jacob, Simon, Mark, Rachel etc) and consume drugged food for the nine week trip to better cope with almost no physical activity. Once they arrive, they are immediately caught in a storm that kills several of them (I did not entirely like this chapter because Compton jumps ahead in time rather abruptly) before the locals arrive to take them to the settlement. Here they discover that it is a self-maintained colony where the criminals (some of their crimes are severe but others are trivial) have created their own small but workable civilisation. Life is very hard and everyone is expected to contribute, pull their weight, or face severe punishment. And that's basically it, that's as far as the sci-fi elements of the story ever goes. But that's the point because, to me at least, this is a novel where Compton is exploring hardship and its beneficial consequences to the human soul. When you remove comfort and freedom, this often (counter intuitively) results in a society that is mentally healthy, robust, deeply satisfied, and ultimately very strong. It feels wrong to acknowledge it, given the hardships involved, but many (often the ones you least expect) take to this new life and thrive while others cannot handle it. The book has a bleak, even cynical take on the human condition. Racism, sexism, homophobia, all present and correct, but the fundamental philosophy of this place and its people is... if you work hard and contribute, you will be rewarded. But obviously this is not always the case. Some people will simply die because of the conditions, because that too is the nature of this kind of life. I really enjoyed this (especially the early chapters) and thought Compton's writing was very fun to read. The book is science fiction in only the most tangential way, its ideas more in line with an existentialist exploration of a life at its more authentic, its most demanding. It's a difficult narrative to sell because it goes against our instincts. Nothing is quite so satisfying as a delicious meal and some good hearty sexual intercourse after a twelve hour day of intense labour and toil. Yet, equally, nothing is quite so bleak. Very interesting. Very good. 6/10

Bolt From the Blue (2020) Jeremy Cooper A novel in the form of letters/postcards written between a mother and daughter across several decades starting in 1985 and ending in 2018. Cooper does a good job of offering small snippets of their lives until, by coalescing effect, it builds into a larger picture whereby you can sense the general volume of their lives, their relationships, their work, their gradual ageing and experience. In that sense, the small entries are effective as little pieces that add to the picture but it also means a lot of them are slightly redundant, easily dismissed, and the urge to skim read becomes increasingly tempting. I think I zoomed through this whole thing rather quickly in the end. As for the two protagonists, I can't say that I actually liked either of them to be honest but I especially found Lynne, the daughter, to be slightly insufferable. Not in any bad way, simply that she represents the banal middle-class rather beautifully and exhibits all the traits required for such a performative life (the book did remind me a little of Latronico's Perfection in this regard). She begins as an art student and over the years garners a certain amount of success as an artist possessing all the mundane political outlooks and opinions which such a person might. She marries an older man, Richard, doesn't want children, and fundamentally maintains a character which I found a tad cliched. Her mother is a little less overbearing, prone to keep at least one foot in the real world, but occasionally they write barbed letters to one another in a manner that strongly hints at anger, resentment, and an open dislike of one another. I guess this was Cooper's attempt at realism, making sure it never becomes too bland. For the most part, it's effective and overall I would say I enjoyed the book but found it mostly inoffensive and ultimately a little forgettable. There's something very light-weight about it, the story being trivial and bland, a snapshot of normality but one which is a little tedious, and it should be noted that the format is one which, I would imagine, was very easily manufactured given that it requires no plot, not great writing, and no particular effort. Plus, it's not exactly realistic, is it? People writing letters in 2014 etc. Cooper even comments on this in the form of an opening blurb by the daughter Lynne where she acknowledges (rather conveniently) it by reiterating: Well sure, in the fictional setting that's true but it's still a novel, Jeremy, still a piece of art created by an author. And, as such, you would hope there'd be a little more to it, a greater substance. But there isn't. So the book is very easy to read and did a reasonable job of (briefly) fleshing out two fictional creations into something more but was, when all is said and done, ultimately a rather gentle offering. I enjoyed Brian a lot more than this but I am still very much a fan of Cooper's writing. 7/10

The Fly (1965) Richard Chopping It took forever to find a copy of this book and I was intrigued to read it due to the many reviews (some of them are on the book itself) which suggested that the book was depraved, shocking, sick, diabolical, scatological, filthy etc. I was, therefore, very excited to read what, presumably, would be a very transgressive novel about "unspeakable people and the unmentionable things they do." Instead, what I actually got was a rather tame novel about a collection of office workers in the 1960s and their complex interpersonal relationships. Sure, the book begins with three urchin children (belonging to the office caretaker Mrs Macklin) playing with a used condom on the end of a stick (tied off at the end apparently and therefore reducing the possibility of a disgusting outcome) and showing it to the office workers as they arrived at work, but beyond this opening, there's very little in the book that I would actually describe as depraved or shocking. These children, a recurring group throughout the novel, seemingly spend all day just hanging around outside the office with little else to do (it was the '60s, children and dogs just wandered the streets). Meanwhile we have Mr Gender who is in love with Miss Jeacock who, in turn is in love with O'Flattery, an Irish man (apparently his only character trait), who is himself being pursued by the aforementioned Mrs Macklin. I have to say, the opening few chapters of this book were utterly sublime, wonderfully written, full of creative and intelligent prose, and highly accomplished. The gimmick of the book (and the reason for its title) is that each of these encounters (be they in the office or at the homes of the characters) are witnessed by a fly, a kind of observer who, unlike the humans with their selfish desires and unnatural behaviours, is positively quaint and noble by comparison. I think we're supposed to conclude that it's the same fly throughout the novel but given the distances involved in these various environments, it seems unlikely and so instead I think we must ultimately conclude that the species (Musca domestica) as a whole are observing our curious human ways. Anyway, as I said, I really enjoyed the opening chapters. They were very compelling, entertaining, and well-written. Alas, Chopping lingers a little too long on certain events (Mr Gender declares his unrequited love for Miss Jeacock leading to disaster) and he doesn't fully utilise his premise of the fly as an unseen and platonic witness. Truth be told, it was a nice way to start the book but it becomes increasingly redundant as it goes along. There are too many uneventful chapters and the exploration of the mundane never quite reaches the heights (neither in terms of writing nor story) that were present at the beginning. It's a novelty book, unique and worth reading, and with some genuine moments of excellent writing. But it is, ultimately, overwritten and fizzles out into a damp squib by the very end. Plus, if, like me, you were expecting some depravity and filth (all things promised), sadly you get very little of that. Instead, the worst you get is a young girl holding a used condom on the end of a stick. Which perhaps works as a nice analogy for the book itself. Interesting at first but then slightly tiresome. 6/10

Malina (1971) Ingeborg Bachmann I tried reading a couple of pages of this a few months back and gave up as it seemed to be a style that I instantly recognised as not my thing. But I finally went back to it and, after reading several more pages, came to the conclusion that it wasn't that bad after all. Alas, this feeling didn't last too long and as I got deeper into it my initial feelings of dread returned, that this was a book I would have to wade through, as if through black treacle. The basic plot concerns an unnamed woman in Austria who lives with an introverted man called Malina but who later meets and has an affair with a more exciting, extrovert Hungarian man called Ivan. He gradually loses interest in her and eventually rejects her while at the same time Malina is dealing with the protagonist's slow descent into madness. I have to say that some of these reflections felt self-indulgent and a little dull. The book then spirals off into fantasy and otherness, a whole section regarding the guilt and consequences of the second world war. I didn't find any of this much fun to read either. The book (I think) is saying something about the brutal masculinity of that war and Bachmann appears to be demonstrating that the duality of man (as presented by Malina and Ivan) is a struggle, which from her female perspective, is at the heart of all human experience. There's a large portion which revolves around her father at this point too. She, like society as a whole, is more excited by what Ivan represents but acknowledges that the security of what Malina represents remains necessary. As such, it's noteworthy, I think, that the book is called Malina as though she, the protagonist, is merely visiting his story. Because it's always HIS story. Because life is a man's story. But I don't know for sure. It felt like that's where she was going with this but the truth is, I struggled to make sense of a lot of it and barely enjoyed the experience. The book is almost tempting the reading to interpret it by virtue of the reader's gender because it has that female touch in the prose, a female consciousness and internal world which is meandering and difficult (as a man) to fully grasp. Women readers might have an entirely different experience of this, one which is more intuitive. Hard to say for certain but this whole book screamed... you are locked inside a woman's mind. In many ways, it was like the inverse version of Kundera's Unbearable Lightness of Being. But I slogged my way though it and never truly understood or enjoyed it. I'm tempted to describe it as experimental writing (it does contain large portions of script-like dialogue and dream sequences) but the truth is I found the text generally very basic, often prosaic, and essentially a standard narration. But it definitely felt like there was an experimental quality. There's something of value here, no doubt, even something quite profound, but from my own (very male) perspective I couldn't find it and was ultimately a little bored by the whole thing. Hard to review because it was saying something important but I just couldn't discern what. 4/10

The Dark (1965) John McGahern The book opens with a boy, the protagonist, being potentially beaten with a leather belt by his father, Mahoney, before the father ultimately changes his mind, only whipping the chair instead. What a relief, you think to yourself only to keep reading whereupon you see the father get into the boy's bed at night and sexually molest him. Christ! McGahern really does pull the rug from under you in these opening chapters, harrassess and bludgeons you with some quite horrific family trauma. What follows is the story of this abused boy coming to terms with his desire to become a priest but simultaneously, and more urgently, his constant sexual urges for women (and the relentless need for masturbation which this inspires). It's certainly an interesting read but not entirely without flaws which somewhat reduced my enjoyment. Firstly, the book begins with a very standard third person narration but as it goes along, it switches, without much warning, to a second person narration. 'You woke up and got dressed. You spoke to the butcher.' etc. I've only ever encountered this before in Calvino's 'If On a Winter's Night a Traveller' and in that book it felt like a deliberate part of the gimmick he was selling. But here, it's simply a style utilised as a narration device on par with first person narration and it's mostly effective (but I'm not sure what it adds, if anything). That is to say you get used to it without ever really gaining much in the process. The only jarring part was the fact that he switched rather than started with second person from the very beginning. As a result, this forced its presence into the foreground more than it should have. The second issue I had with the book is that it's very dialogue heavy, a thing I don't always enjoy as it feels like it stutters the reading experience (at least for me). Overall, it was an intriguing novel with some dark themes which wallow in the Irish tradition of Catholic misery and abuse. The sister Joan is also being abused, the father does not get his come-uppance, and the church offers no meaningful solace. So yeah, a bleak novel of violence and traumatised formative adulthood. Hard to measure but ultimately a small novel that was easy to read but which never entirely held my attention. This is my first McGahern and while I wasn't overly impressed I found it compelling enough to want to read more of his work in the future. 6/10

Riders in the Chariot (1962) Patrick White The first quarter of this book included some of the most astonishingly accomplished prose I have ever read; writing of such fluid genius and creative invention, sentences that were exquisite, lyrical, original. Every second paragraph, I would have to stop and re-read a sentence because it was just so mesmerising and beautiful. Each chapter was a work of art in itself. And this language was used in service of a grotesquely fascinating story of two cantankerous old women, Miss Hare, the owner of a house called Xanadu and her new, equally cantankerous and aged housekeeper Mrs Jolley. These two women spar with one another in a manner reminiscent of "What Ever Happened to Baby Jane," their acidic jibes and one-upmanship utterly compelling, full of bluster and wit, callous judgementalism and endless passive/aggressive etiquette. I had never read anything quite so good with such an entertaining premise. Although there was no more mention of Mrs Flack she was always there at Xanadu. Miss Hare could feel her presence. In certain rather metallic light, behind clumps of ragged, droughty laurels, in corners of rooms where dry rot had encouraged the castors to burst through the boards, on landings where wallpaper hung in drunken brown festoons, or departed from the wall in one long limp sheet, Mrs Flack obtruded worst, until Miss Hare began to fear, not only for her companion and housekeeper, at the best of times a doubtful asset, but, what was far more serious, for the safety of her property. I honestly could have read writing of that calibre all day. And as I said, I was loving every inch of this book. But alas, White then introduces Mordacai Himmelfarb, another elderly character, a Jew who, having grown up in Germany, endured the First World War, and lost his wife to the growing Third Reich, finds himself emigrating to Australia. The book then focuses an enormous amount of time on him and while the writing is still good, I felt it took second place to the more necessary purpose of giving him a coherent and properly realised backstory. The problem is I just kept reading all this and wanting Miss Hare and Mrs Jolley to come back. And slowly but surely my interest started to wane. It isn't until Part Five (the book has seven parts) that the book does finally go back to them by which point I was already struggling to remain invested. But then, once again, White drops them and introduces yet another character, this time an aboriginal man called Alf Dubbo. And again, I was somewhat losing my initial feeling of awe and adoration. Meanwhile, we also get Ruth Godbold, a woman with a large brood of children who, like the other main characters, shares a religious vision of four horses drawing a chariot towards a better future (hence the title). I was intrigued by the religious themes, not to mention the importance of being an outsider, or a visionary, and each of these main characters were profound and thoughtful, touched by sadness in various ways, and capable of seeing deeper into life than most people. But I'm not a fan of books that introduce new characters as it goes along, it's often jarring, especially if the first characters you encounter are the ones you find most compelling. Had Mordacai Himmelfarb had is own book, I might have been more engaged but here, he essentially took me away from what I was enjoying -- those two wonderfully mad women. Then comes another new character. Then another. It feels disjointed and remote, difficult to warm to, and I was sad to discover my initial excitement dissipating. Had the book been a short Novella simply focusing on Miss Hare and Mrs Jolley, their irascible sparring and friction, using such insanely brilliant language, I would have considered it an all-time favourite. A stunning work of literature. But, similar to Voss, White slightly outstays his welcome. I understand what White was attempting to do but I'm not a fan of continuous introductions of new characters and directions. Maybe drip feed them into the story rather than suddenly change gear. Or just keep them away entirely. It may also be partly my own failing since I was so overwhelmed by that first part, so stunned by its utter magnificence, that I became slightly unwilling to engage with the narrative that came after. But it has to be said, Patrick White is capable of some of the most insanely glorious writing I have ever encountered. 8/10

The Sorrows of Young Werther (1774) Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe I've been meaning to read this one for a while now, the classic story of unrequited love. The book is written as an epistolary novel with Werther writing to his friend Wilhelm over the course of nearly two years but it often feels like you're reading a diary, only the moments when he speaks directly to Wilhelm in the letters reminding you otherwise. In fact, it seems like an awful lot of letters to write over such a short period of time if you ask me (God only knows how sick of his love-struck wining Wilhelm must have been). But I suppose that's not considered too unusual for the time period. The story, as manufactured by Werther, is essentially that of a romantic young man who, after visiting a local village, meets a young woman called Lotte. He quickly falls in love with her despite knowing she is engaged to an older man called Albert and as the letters go along, you can sense his increasing frustration and heartache. He goes away for a time but on his return discovers that Lotte and Albert are married and, slowly but surely, we see him descend deeper into misery and despair. Gradually, suicide seems like the only way out. As is often the case with romantics. Similar to a lot of books written at this time, it has a very distinct feel, a slightly melodramatic quality which is obviously dated, and where sentences seem overly flamboyant and often begin with the word oh. "Oh, how my heart beats for her." That sort of thing, etc. It's perfectly readable but I can't say I found it especially romantic or even very existential in the traditional sense of a man who, often a loner, cannot find success with a woman. It feels too distant as a piece, too inauthentic and even silly, despite being based on Goethe's own life experiences and heartbreak. I also never entirely felt certain how Lotte felt about all this, the ending suggesting a certain grief on her part but not necessarily for any reason other than losing a friend. And the occasional response from Wilhem (the poor bugger who had to endure all these moaning missives) might have been nice too but we get nothing. Plus, I disliked the strange interruption to the letters where the book suddenly turns into a standard narrative as it felt odd (and a bit of a cheat if you ask me). Nonetheless, the book is definitely worth a look as a classic but there's nothing too spectacular here. 6/10

War Trash (2004) Ha JIn Having read Waiting and mostly enjoyed it, I was expecting to like this more since it was about war and would presumably focus more on that and less on the existential nightmare of a relationship that is never allowed to begin. Unfortunately, I found this significantly less interesting, mostly because very little happens and secondly because Ha Jin's writing is very listless and dull, prosaic, matter of fact etc. It's not bad writing, it's just very perfunctory. It was easier to ignore with Waiting because that story had an intriguing dynamic but this is more straight-forward. The book is about a young Chinese soldier, a 'volunteer' called Yu Yuan, who is fighting on behalf of the Chinese Communists in the Korean War. It's told from his later perspective as an elderly man now living in the USA writing his memoir. As a young man he left his mother and fiance behind and, understandably, had a strong desire to get back to them. It begins with his unit engaging the enemy sporadically but mostly it concerns their ceaseless marching towards various locations. Very early on in the book he and his unit are captured and placed in a series of prisoner of war camps where the book settles for the duration. This is essentially the meat and potatoes of the story, switching from a Nationalist camp to a Communist camp, and only the occasional distraction of intrigue here and there, such as escape attempts, religious leaders, his desire to improve his English, a dog named Blackie, a captured American general, and several (very well researched) forays into the finer details of the war. From that angle, it might appeal to people because I thought the military stuff was effectively done, meticulous even, and nicely realised. It was tempting to think this was indeed a personal memoir but Ja Hin wasn't even born until 1956 so hats off for researching and creating such a convincing world. The problem is I just didn't think it was ever that interesting. Ultimately, Ha Jin's writing is very basic. I think I said the same when reviewing Waiting. It's just very functional and, as such, never develops into anything remotely challenging or exquisite, it's just there to do a job, move you along. You can dismiss this as deliberate (given that the fictional Yu Yuan is not a writer himself) but since this was also the case with Waiting, I think that might be generous. Overall, I was never that interested in the narrative and found his writing was simply too dry to bring any of it to life. It was fine, well researched (you could genuinely believe this was a real memoir), but not much more. If you liked Waiting or are a fan of military novels then I'd recommend it. 5/10

As someone who tries to keep up with Nobel Prize winners in literature, and occasionally reads them (some are truly sublime, others are shockingly prosaic), when Abdulrazak Gurnah won, I did need to Google him.

Death and The Penguin (1996) Andrey Kurkov Perhaps one of the most mediocre things I've read in a long time, certainly among the most forgettable. Another contemporary novel that disappointed me. Honestly, I read stuff like this and wonder how on earth certain people get publishing deals. It bewilders me. This whole book felt like it was written for people who struggle to watch TikTok videos without getting distracted. Simplistic prose, banal, dull, unutterably lifeless, and peppered with equally dry dialogue. It's one of those books that's very easy to read so you don't actually notice how thoroughly empty the thing is. I can't even say I disliked it, but merely found it boring. In theory, the story is an original idea, a man commissioned to write advanced obituaries for people who aren't dead yet but who are, not long after they're submitted by our protagonist, the aspiring author, Viktor, murdered by the gangsters using the newspaper as a front. This is presumably why the book has those horrible phrases on the front cover such as: 'brilliant satire' or 'black comedy.' That should have been my first clue. Then we have the fact that Viktor lives with a penguin (how very zany) due to the zoo closing down and needing people who are willing to adopt various animals. He later gets lumbered with Sonya, the child of a mysterious neighbour (also called Misha like the penguin), then comes the love interest NIna. What follows is some Kafkaesque mimicry enveloped in obvious satire (he now becomes the focus of a new obituary writer and the penguin needs to go to Antarctica). But none of it matters because this whole book is just predictable and lifeless. Reading this reminded me of Before the Coffee Gets Cold, another book written for people who enjoy easy to digest narratives that demand very little of the reader, neither challenging nor beautiful, just wallpaper for the mind. This is the reason why I have so little time for modern literature, it's all so vapid and soulless, so trapped by form and function. Yes, easy to read but so thoroughly bloodless. You can't just have a nice idea for a novel, you have to actually write prose that sparkles and dances, otherwise it's just beige coloured paste being flung into your mouth as you chew, unthinkingly, like a docile cow. Perfectly well-written but, in my opinion, utterly valueless as literature. Ask me about it next week, and I'll have no memory of this book whatsoever. 3/10

The Other Side (1909) Alfred Kubin In the late 1800s and early 1900s, a lot of books like this seem to have become fashionable, stories about an eerie place somewhere else in the world (or on another planet or dimension altogether) where a madman has attempted to create a new kind of Utopia. This one starts like that, but quickly changes direction, after a man (the protagonist) is visited and told that an old school friend (Patera) has created a place called the Dream Realm and has invited him to come and see it. The language used (at least in this translation) makes it seem as though this place -- the dream realm -- will turn out to be some kind of other worldly place, a magical dimension inaccessible to others, perhaps reached only by some sort of magical vortex or hypnotism. But no, it's actually a real place located in central Asia. And so off they go, the narrator and his wife, across Europe and Asia to find this strange place. I quite enjoyed this part of the book, like Phileas Fogg or something, with trains and steam ships, man and wife crossing the Caspian and meeting exotic natives etc. Once they arrive, however, heading for the capital Pearl, instead of finding some majestic land of curious mystery, what they actually encounter is a very banal environment with European style buildings, unpleasant people, and standard living arrangements. There's a population of around 65 thousand and, somewhat inexplicably, the narrator gets a job as a journalist essentially reporting on the Dream Realm and making life here permanent. This felt odd to me as I was given the impression they were just visiting but they basically make a new life here, in a place that is ostensibly strange but still a letdown. Meanwhile, the mysterious Patera is never to be seen, a symbol of uncertainty and myth, and you get the impression that the book will give us a big reveal at some point. But again, that doesn't really happen. As things go along, the Dream Realm begins to capitulate, turn into chaos, and the crumbling downfall is recorded by our narrator. I'm not entirely sure what Fubin was trying to say here. At first I thought it was just your standard mystery land narrative popular at the time; then I thought it was a direct satire on those very types of books. But it never really goes anywhere and you're left wondering what it was all for. Having done the bare minimum amount of research, it turns out that Fubin (an illustrator) was actually commissioned to create artwork for Meyrink's The Golem but this was delayed. So instead he decided to write a story that could utilise these drawings and simply build a story around them (my copy did include these rather grotesque pencil images). But I just never felt that the story quite matched up to them. Anyway, of this genre, I didn't think it was that interesting. Worth a look certainly but nothing that amazing. I liked some aspects of the book but mostly found it rather prosaic. I was hoping for some kind of twist ending, a big reveal, but all I got was Fubin reminding us that everything in life whether magical or mundane is ultimately banal: 5/10

Not always a fan of his work but he deserved it. Saw this coming a mile off.

The Slave (1962) Isaac Bashevis Singer A beautifully written and absurdly romantic love story. I found this both exquisite in terms of the prose but also in terms of the slow and magnificently detailed development of their relationship and hardships. I thought the writing was sublime and suspect a great deal of credit must also go to the translator given that Singer wrote exclusively in Yiddish. After a massacre of Jews in 17th century Poland, a Jew named Jacob is taken as a slave to a small mountain village. He endeavours to maintain his religion despite the villagers mocking and beating him, trying to force him to eat pork, and, in many ways, he uses these experiences to become even more devout, observing as many traditional rituals as possible, methodically carving the commandments into a stone, and rejecting all potential temptation to sin. His master has a daughter named Wanda and the two develop an attraction which slowly builds into an intense sexual craving (which appals Jacob as it goes against his religion and feels more like a torment from the devil). Eventually, the two succumb and begin a sexual relationship. After many years of slavery, some Jews come to ransom him and he is, without ceremony, taken back to Josefov, the town where he is originally from and where he continues to crave Wanda. He eventually decides to leave the town and return to her but knows, because she is a gentile, that they must live somewhere else and keep her identity secret. They arrive in a town called Pilitz and Wanda masquerades as a mute woman called Sarah. During the birth of their child, however, she gives herself away by speaking Polish which causes the Jewish community to grasp that she is not a Jew and results in them punishing Jacob for this transgression. The final part of the book then jumps 20 years ahead. It's a magnificent piece of work. It occasionally drags because of the intricate details Singer includes, the day to day existence, the minutia of their experiences. But the writing is always very high quality. Obviously, the book has a very religious nature but while it explores themes of suffering for the Jews, it also criticises many aspects of Judaism itself, especially those that reveal themselves to be overtly hypocritical. While Jacob is treated unpleasantly by the Christians, a thing which Jacob insist would not happen the other way around, once Wanda is among the Jewish community, she is also treated very badly demonstrating that the Jewish ideals they live by are equally malleable. The defining feature of the book, however, is the intense feeling of connection between these two people, their almost addictive passions, Jacob and Wanda/Sarah beginning their relationship on a foundation of pure lust but discovering that their love goes significantly deeper. It reminded me a lot of Kazanzakis' The Last Temptation both in its spiritual profundity but also in its terrible heart-ache. I think I would describe this as one of the most romantic books I have ever read. 8/10

The Late Mattia Pascal (1904) Luigi Pirandello The story of a man who, after a dead body is found and assumed to be him, takes the opportunity to start a new life without the necessity of doing anything himself. It's a nice idea for a novel and, given that Pirandello deals with identity in One, No-one, and One Hundred Thousand (a book I loved), I thought this might explore similar ideas in the same way. To some extent it does but not as much as I would have liked. The book is more comical in tone, more interested in plot developments, distracted by the intricate qualities of his old life, his new life, and his ultimate failure to start again (leading to his return to his previous life). I would have liked the book to have lingered a little more on the philosophical aspects of identity, of defining who we are, who others think we might be, what constitutes a person. It never quite accomplishes that and, as such, I started to lose interest somewhat. The first third of the novel focuses on Mattia Pascal's background, the book giving us a great deal of information regarding his family, his upbringing, and his eventual marriage. His family are rich but the money is controlled by a family friend who squanders the wealth. When his mother and daughters both die, he leaves and goes to Monte Carlo where, without any noticeable strategy, he manages to win a huge sum of money. On the train back to Italy, he learns of his own apparent death in the newspaper, another man's body having wrongly been identified as his own. At this very moment, somewhat influenced by grief and life regrets, he sees an opportunity to start a new life somewhere else (his casino fortune adding weight to this possibility). So that's what he does, wanders Europe, before finally settling in Rome under the new name Adriano Meis. He moves into a new apartment and falls in love with the daughter of the landlord. After trying to make this life work, he again realises that he is still unhappy and must fake his death (again) before returning to his (now remarried) wife and previous life. Like I said, it's a great idea for a novel, especially if you want to explore themes of self, identity, even the nature of reality. There's an element of wanting to know, when you arrive at the fork in the road, what life might have transpired had you chosen differently. But as I said, it never truly commits to the premise and I really wished it had played with these ideas a little more and focused less on the relationship drama and intrigue. This was such a good but wasted opportunity. I loved the first third but was ultimately getting bored as it went along. There is a theatrical quality to it that I didn't like and it never quite became what I wanted it to be. 6/10

The Last Samurai (2001) Helen DeWitt This is the story of an American woman named Sibylla and her son, Ludo (Ludovic) living in London and his curious development as a child prodigy as well as his growing desire to know the identity of his father. As such, the book explores the issue of intelligence, plays with notions regarding the essences of its development, its source, meaning, and what constitutes genius. In turn, the related question of education, genetics, and the best method to raise a child with these nuanced abilities (fundamentally reminding the reader that children are people too, not just convenient appendages). There's a worthwhile story somewhere in amongst all this but it was a struggle to find. What's interesting is that I enjoyed the first two chapters but then, when the book acquires its experimental framework, I started to find it irksome and self-indulgent. The book interrupts the narrative passages with dialogue from the film The Seven Samurai as well as other unnecessary digressions. Nonetheless, as I continued reading I found, to my surprise, that I was actually getting into it, enjoying the premise, and was slowly starting to care about the two characters despite the fact that neither of them were especially realistic to me (it all felt rather perfomative). But still, I was gaining momentum only to have it dwindle in the final third as the book (and it's presentation technique) became slightly tedious again, the trick having worn off, the spell broken, the averageness concealed by the book's presentation and framing device revealed to be dull at best and inane drivel at worst. It almost had me but ultimately my spidey sense was tingling. In the past, I have made the point that the vast majority (I would say at least 90%) of stream-of-consciousness writing is nothing more than an exercise in mediocre authors hiding their mediocrity behind style and presentation; it is, after all, a style of writing which can easily manipulate the reader into thinking something more interesting is going on. I'm amazed how many fall for it. DeWitt at least endeavours to try something different, her writing somewhat prosaic and obvious but wrapped in the contrived framework of stuttered paragraphs interrupted by various intellectual excursions. But still, the objective and the effect is the same. Now I know I'm wasting my breath with this (again) but the fact remains this is a very easy and convenient way to obscure average prose without being detected. I only bring this up because occasionally a writer will try something similar but instead of utilising stream-of-consciousness writing they will play around with form and presentation in other ways (but with the same goal in mind). Such is the case here. DeWitt basically presents her story in a very uninteresting manner, with dull, functional prose, and somewhat forgettable characters. But she will interrupt this dull prose with sections from the Seven Samurai, with dialogue from the film, with vignettes designed to add colour, with diary entries, with mathematics and history. She will go off on tangents (between paragraphs) that tangentially relate to the subject matter in question (genius/child prodigy) but which, in reality, contribute very little to the piece. It's a trick. And one I ultimately had little time for. There is never any sense of sincerely addressing the issue of genius and how to define it. Ludo is simply smarter than everyone and, on the many circle line journeys he makes with his mother, is in receipt of bewilderment and condescension from startled passengers (as he reads The Odyssey). DeWitt is occasionally funny but it's all in service of a story I didn't really care about. The limits of intelligence mean very little when presented in gibberish masquerading as something more profound or convoluted. It felt like a Fast Show sketch stretched over 500 pages, the final third becoming tiresome to the extreme, my initial intrigue at the two characters having dissipated, and my interest in the mystery of who Ludo's father might be having dwindled from not that fussed to... couldn't give a fudge. I would still recommend the book because there's enough to justify calling this an interesting but failed experiment. Ultimately I came to the conclusion that it was...MEH! And I'm sorry but no amount of hocus-pocus and playing with the form was going to trick me. It's an average book trying a little too hard, often very smug and pleased with itself, but with only a modicum of authenticity and value. Good enough to warrant a lecture but not enough to make me attend the lecture. Despite the middle section gaining my interest, I was left cold and unimpressed. One of the main reasons that slight of hand is so compelling to an audience is because they know that the exciting thing they just saw, can't explain, and gasped at... is difficult to fathom. But once you explain how the trick is done, their face drops and they shrug with disappointment at the sheer banality of it. 5/10