Hux

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

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

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

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

.

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

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

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

Belt

Apple

Got the cat by the tail

Midwife

Ice (1967) Anna Kavan This was intensely boring. If I had to describe all the literary genres I most dislike, this book might encapsulate them all. There's elements of stream-of-consciousness (more like stream-of-narrative), slipstream, magical realism, and what I would describe as nextism adventure (then I was on a boat going to a new country, then I was in a castle, then I was fighting in a war). All things that I find utterly tedious and unrewarding to read. The story is a dreamlike scenario which sees the narrator existing in a word where ice sheets are slowly devouring the planet while at the same time, he is obsessed with finding a girl with blonde silvery hair. If you've read books like 'The Blind Owl' or "if On a Winter's Night a Traveler' you'll get the gist of what kind of narrative were dealing with here. It's all rather magical and weird and surreal yet presented in a very matter of fact and standard prose manner. This, for me, is the main problem with the book. If you're going to inflict your dull story on me then it needs to be exquisite experimental writing that elevates the material and makes the plot (if there is such a thing) entirely redundant. Alternatively, if you're going to use very basic (but entirely decent) writing (as Kavan does) then you need to make it a lot more dynamic and intriguing. But we get neither. And thus, I am immensely bored. It seems clear that Kavan is exploring several ideas and themes in the book (predominantly I felt she was criticising masculine concepts of romantic love and possessiveness and perhaps using the encroaching ice as a metaphor for her drug addiction) but I was so unengaged by the writing that I just didn't care. There's just something about these books, this style, that makes me roll my eyes in utter despair. It's such navel gazing indulgence and it so thoroughly bores me. That being said the writing is fine (even occasionally great) and if you like this sort of thing (magical realism, slipstream, nextism adventure in the vein of 'If on a Winter's Night etc) then you might find something wonderful in it. I found almost nothing. 3/10

He's being sarcastic when he says it, I suppose. He's reiterating that we're only human. And humans are flawed and inflict their traumas onto each other. It's a hard book to review because I think Carpenter is trying to say a lot of things. It's both romantic and bleak.

Golf

Wonder

If you post after me, the cat will cry...

Hard Rain Falling (1966) Don Carpenter This might be the most romantic book I've ever read which is strange given that it's a love story between two men, neither of which are gay. But they connect, albeit under unique circumstances, and in way that is deeper than a mere sexual convenience. The story focuses on Jack Levitt, an orphan hoodlum who, as a 17-year-old, hangs out at pool halls and engages in pretty crime. As the novel progresses, it jumps ahead in time and we follow Jack as he bumps into one of his old friends, Denny, and hangs out with (what turn out to be) two underaged girls. Next thing he knows, he is in prison for rape and dealing with the ongoing hardship of a life without any power. In San Quentin Prison, he meets Billy Lancing, a black kid he briefly knew from the old days and they share a cell. They become good friends and, after wrestling with the implications for a while, eventually agree to provide each other with sexual release. The arrangement is a purely logical one and neither men feel any particular sense of shame or regret. Once Jack gets back into the real world, he meets Sally and they get married and eventually have a kid. Like I said, romantic. Jack accepts and acknowledges that he and Billy had a meaningful connection. He doesn't regard himself as a homosexual and this isn't a story about latent desires or a suppressed sexuality. Two men just happened, via circumstance, to connect in a way that, ultimately, one would have to describe as involving love. The book isn't about that so much as it is offering us a window into a genuine moment of happiness amid an unhealthy norm that is being culturally undermined. There is still beauty to be found in the relentless nihilism. Because, if anything, I felt like the book was more about female sexual liberation and its terrible consequences than anything else. Sally has NO desire to be a mother and finds it to be a tedious chore. But what else could she view it as when raised by a world that reiterates this? Jack has naive notions of a world getting better by one generation raising its kids better than the last and so on but how can that happen when raising children is increasingly sold to us as a prison. Raising a child was to Sally what San Quentin was to Jack and, at his more lucid moments, he knows and even sympathises with this. So what chance did either of them have?

FA

yes

Hmmm.

Trick

Shuggie Bain (2020) Douglas Stuart Another piece of contemporary fiction which is entirely readable but not necessarily much more than that. The prose is very much what you'd expect and the story and framework are what you've seen before from countless other modern novels. This one also has all that misery porn which people (women) seem to love but which, to me, is only a distraction from the writing and tends to become rather repetitive. I will say, however, that it was very authentic. Reading the book instantly transported me back to my own childhood, growing up on various council estates with a single mother who put her own needs ahead of her children's. Stuart does a great job of setting the scene and detailing the cliched intricacies of working class life. I recognised so much of it. Especially the mercurial mother who neglects her children whilst positioning herself as the victim, something which led me to boil with anger at my own memories. Ultimately, your being asked to sympathise with Agnes but, based on my own experiences, I just couldn't do it. She has responsibilities and I don't care if alcoholism is a disease. I just don't care. Protect your damn children! That aside, it's an entertaining read (for the most part) and definitely worth a look. The story is about young Shuggie (Hugh) and his alcoholic mother Agnes. Living in Glasgow with Agnes, her parents, and his two siblings, Shuggie is a quiet, softly spoke boy (the book strongly hints at him being gay) who adores his mother. Agnes was married once before to a seemingly nice yet boring man and had a daughter and son with that man. She then left him for the more exciting big Shug (Shuggie's father) and yet seems to have developed a taste for alcohol that only exacerbates. They move from his grandparents' council flat to a house on an estate where, almost immediately, big shug leaves her for another woman. There follows a series of men (referred to as uncles) and one man in particular called Eugene who, for a while at least, seems to provide some happiness for Agnes. This is also the longest period of sobriety for Agnes, lasting roughly one year. But again, it ultimately fails. The book is well written but gets a little repetitive and drags at the half way point. More than once, we get the aforementioned misery porn more than is actually required. It adds nothing new given that we already know what is happening and what to expect. That aside, the story is very basic and it essentially spirals towards an ending that's sad but pretty predictable. That it's based on Stuart's own life obviously adds weight to the material but as a piece of literature, it's left wanting in my opinion. I enjoyed it overall but found the story a little too close to home to really like it. And from a purely prose point of view, I thought it was quite average. Good but (as always) not worth the hype that came with it. 7/10