Hux Book Blog 2024 (Spoilers)

[Hux]

January

Review posted on January 2 - Insane (Rainald Goetz) 3/10

Review posted on January 3 - The Fire Within (Pierre Drieu La Rochelle) 6/10

Review posted on January 6 - The Sheltering Sky (Paul Bowles) 9/10

Review posted on January 15 - On Heroes and Tombs (Ernesto Sabato) 7/10

Review posted on January 18 - Pigtales (Marie Darrueussecq) 6/10

Review posted on January 19 - Closely Watched Trains (Bohumil Hrabal) 7/10

Review posted on January 27 - Shuggie Bain (Douglas Stuart) 7/10

 

February

Review posted on February 3 - Hard Rain Falling (Don Carpenter) 9/10

Review posted on February 8 - Ice (Anna Kavan) 3/10

Review posted on February 15 - Babbitt (Sinclair Lewis) 8/10

Review posted on February 17 - Freshwater (Akwaeke Emezi) 7/10

Review posted on February 24 - Gog (Andrew Sinclair) 7/10

Review posted on February 25 - The Limit (Rosalind Belben) 5/10

 

March 

Review posted on March 1 - For Two Thousand Years (Mihail Sebastian) 6/10

Review posted on March 3 - Monday Morning (Patrick Hamilton) 8/10

Review posted on March 8 - Asylum (Patrick McGrath) 8/10

Review posted on March 12 - Two Serious Ladies (Jane Bowles) 6/10

Review posted on March 14 - The Recognitions (William Gaddis) 4/10

Review posted on March 17 - The Green Face (Gustav Meyrink) 7/10

Review posted on March 22 - Paris Trout (Pete Dexter) 7/10

Review posted on March 28 - Zorba The Greek (Nikos Kazantzakis) 7/10

Review posted on March 30 - The Snow Was Dirty (Georges Simenon) 10/10

 

April

Review posted on April 5 - Journey by Moonlight (Antal Szerb) 7/10

Review posted on April 8 - The Magic Mountain (Thomas Mann) 5/10

Review posted on April 11 - Platform (Michel Houellebecq) 8/10

Review posted on April 13 - The Strangers in the House (Georges Simenon) 7/10

Review posted on April 19 - Three Trapped Tigers (G. Cabrera Infante) 4/10

Review posted on April 25 - Night Train to Lisbon (Pascal Mercier) 6/10

 

Edited Thursday at 05:39 PM by Hux

[Hux]

Insane (1983) Rainald Goetz

 

An incoherent mess with some mildly interesting ideas about psychiatry wrapped up within a great deal of middle-class performativity.

Part one (Away) is a jumble of nonsense vignettes narrated in first and third person so that you don't really understand what the hell is going on. I assumed it was a collection of individuals at the asylum (mostly patients) but it's hard to tell and you never get anything close to resembling a narrative. It was at this point that I strongly considered quitting the book.

Then part two (Inside) which, thankfully, endeavours to give the reader an actual narrative that can be understood. We follow the new (and seemingly idealistic) psychiatric doctor, Raspe, as he is shown the ropes by other more experienced doctors (notably Bögl) and introduced to patients (potentially the patients who were rambling incoherently in part one but I'm not entirely sure). Here the book is vastly more readable and finally starts exploring an interesting subject matter. Raspe is somewhat brought down to earth with a bang by what he encounters. He begins to see how ineffective and arbitrary most treatments are, how medication is predominantly created to make patients docile rather than better, and how psychiatry is a profoundly flawed profession dealing with as much scientific certainty as medium's who communicate with the dead. They're essentially making it up as they go and hoping for the best. As someone who used to work in mental health, I immediately related to the whole concept of one step forward, two steps back. Raspe, of course, notes the fact that doctors and patients are often in their roles by sheer convenience and luck. And while this section of the book is undeniably the only part worth reading, it's still not exactly what I would call entertaining or good.

Then comes part three (Order) which is presumably an ironic title given that this contains the most incoherent gibberish of the entire book. Here we get more random garbage and more disassociated narration from both Raspe and Goetz himself. I'm sure it's all very artistic and brilliant but it's also extremely banal and tedious. Throughout the book (published in 1983), there is an ongoing sense coming from Goetz that punk was highly influential on him. This book is clearly his contribution to that rather forgettable scene. But given that punk was all about working-class kids picking up guitars and doing it for themselves (later to be bastardised by middle-class kids onto new wave and new romantics), there is something phoney about the whole thing. Goetz is a very well-educated privileged man masquerading as an outsider. He is a poser. A fake. And his book is frankly awful.

So that's it, that's the book. If you're a painfully tedious hipster who's never had a momentary struggle in his entire life but thinks being performatively left-wing qualifies you as an outsider, then you should read this. You'll love it... by which I mean you'll pretend to love it.

 

3/10

[~Andrea~]

That is a wonderfully Hux review! I love your negative reviews

[Hux]

2 hours ago, ~Andrea~ said:

That is a wonderfully Hux review! I love your negative reviews

 

And they're more fun to write.

[Hux]

The Fire Within (1931)  Pierre Drieu La Rochelle

 

Books like this are always hard to review. From a modem perspective, it all seems rather indulgent and emo. 'Boo boo, life is so hard because I'm young and beautiful and like injecting heroin. Why doesn't anyone love me.' Suffice it to say a book like this would probably get laughed out of the room in the contemporary context especially since it doesn't gorge on the requisite poverty porn or psychological navel-gazing which current literature demands. As such, it can come across as somewhat trivial and bourgeois in its exploration of the subject matter.

And the subject matter is drugs and suicide! But taken in context (a book written by a fascist sympathiser in 1931), it developes a greater weight and intensity. The writing helps because it's fluid prose with some dense and lyrical flourishes (though it occasionally gets a little too dense); and it has that wonderful atmospheric aura of the inter war period which (if you're me) really adds to the experience.

The story is the best kind: basic. It opens with the protagonist Alain waking up with one of his lovers Lydia. She leave Paris to go back to New York that morning and Alain, a heroin addict, goes back to the sanitorium where he lives and is attempting to get clean. The next day he goes out for the night, meeting his friend Dubourg at his house, then his friend Falet, then goes to an opium den populated by spoiled caricatures, then another bar, then another etc etc. All the while thinking through his heroin addiction, his failed marriage, and his inevitable suicide. The book reminded me a little of 'They Shoot Horses, Don't They?' in so much as it deals with someone who wants no part of life (though the writing is better). Plus there's an obvious Celine quality. It's the standard story of a drug user coming to terms with his evaporating youth and the failed expectations of his promise. Ultimately, I found Alain very unlikeable and never really cared about his problems but I was mostly entertained by the bluntness of the piece.

"The world was filled with people he would never know. He would kill himself tomorrow, but he had to get through the night first. A night is a winding road that must be followed from one end to the other."

6/10

[Hux]

The Sheltering Sky (1949) Paul Bowles) 

 

If I wanted to be unkind I would describe this book as 'bored middle-class people get their comeuppance' but, given how much I enjoyed it, I am willing to put certain things I disliked to one side and focus on the positives. Firstly, it's wonderfully written with some delightful turns of phrase.
"The wind at the window celebrated her dark sensation of having attained a new depth of solitude."

And, more importantly, the book delves into the bleak realities of existential crisis and the banalities of having both to live in a meaningless universe and, via a myriad of actions and beliefs, deceive ourselves that we, in fact, do not. These two things combined made for a wonderful reading experience which, as we stumble to the end, becomes ever more blunt and unforgiving. It ostensibly deals with Port and his wife Kit who are traveling around Algeria, him for reasons of ennui and escape, her because she is his wife. They have both come to terms with the fact that they are bored with each other. To make matters worse, their friend, Tunner, is also travelling with them and patently has feelings (perhaps only sexual in nature) for Kit. As the story progresses, they keep moving from one town to another, one desolate landscape to the next, until Port falls ill and Kit, unmoved by his struggles, descends into a spiraling nightmare of madness and brutality. Never has a woman been forced to deal with the consequences of being denied the protection of her own civilisation quite so heartlessly.

All in all, this is a book with very little sympathy for your loneliness, your dreams, your hopes, or beliefs. And it's quite magnificent. Here comes reality, here it comes... can you feel it.

"I used to think that life was a thing that kept gaining impetus. It would get richer and deeper each year. You kept learning more, getting wiser, having more insight, going further into the truth."

"And now you know it's not like that. Right? It's more like smoking a cigarette. The first few puffs it tastes wonderful, and you don't even think of it ever being used up. Then you begin taking it for granted. Suddenly you realise it's nearly burned down to the end. And that's when you're conscious of the bitter taste."

 

9/10

[Hux]

On Heroes and Tombs (1961) Ernesto Sabato

 

Really wanted to like this but it was such a struggle. I got through the first third fairly unscathed but gradually, and with a growing sense of deja vu, I began to lose momentum. The writing is fine, especially at the beginning, but the story is just immensely dull. And more importantly, it's a story that Sabato already told me (with greater brevity and wit) in the Tunnel: young man (Martin) becomes obsessed with a girl (Alejandra) who shows no real passion or interest in him yet, presumably as a convenience (such is the privilege of being a woman), chooses, nonetheless, to pursue a relationship with him despite her obvious boredom. In turn, as she treats him with aloof disdain, the man becomes possessive and paranoid to a point that is incongruent given how bland the girl in question is. He pines and squirms, begs and pleads, he follows her, he fixates, he demands to know where she's going, who she's with, and, the final nail in the coffin, he repeatedly asks if she loves him (that's usually the point when women start to roll their eyes). And then, because it's a Sabato novel, she dies tragically, because... well, because that's what happens to beautiful girls it seems.

I think it's safe to say that Sabato had his heart broken by some hot piece of ass when he was young and never really got over it. That's fine but why tell the same story again when you've already done it so brilliantly? All this book did was make it more dense and self-indulgent when there was no need. This girl was admittedly more unpleasant but the themes are very much the same but simply overplayed and a little more bloated. By the hallway point I was turning pages with the enthusiasm of Sisyphus pushing his boulder. It was a slog.

Then comes part three, a bizarre exploration of Alejandra's father, Fernando, back in the days when he was young, days where, apparently, he was seemingly obsessed (to the point of fetishisation) with blind people. This whole section only added fuel to the fire of my already waning interest. I could not get onboard at all and was bemused, bored, and begging for it to end. The book just never grabbed me or excited me, never made me relish the next chapter or ponder the wider themes (of which there are many but I'd already given up by then).

Sabato can clearly write and I would definitely recommend this book as it might be one of those books that just works for some people. But for me, after initially enjoying the first third or so, I just didnt care enough to keep investing. These characters never spoke to me. They never mattered to me. And I'm not sure anything could have been done to change that. Sometimes a book just isn't for you (for whatever reason).

 

7/10

[Hux]

Pigtales (1996) Marie Darrieussecq

 

An easy to read (it breezes along) but mostly forgettable satire that adds nothing new in regards to the issue of gender. Had I read this in the 90s (when it was published), I might have been more impressed but, in the current climate, I would say the book has actually aged quite badly. What is being satirised isn't always clear but there seems to be an obvious attack on men using women as meat which, in better hands, might be worth exploring but here, is somewhat undermined by the fact that the main character also uses herself as meat. Again, this might be the implied criticism but it's never overt and it all feels rather obvious and unoriginal. People are animals. Men are predators. Women are meat. Yawn.

So the general method for exploring this idea involves a story about a young woman who becomes a sex worker then, as the novel goes along, begins to transform into a pig. To the background of this we have a kind of dystopian political landscape in France where totalitarians take over and, further along, an implication that others also become animals but can switch back to human when necessary. Yvan, one of her many lovers, for instance, becomes a wolf but has trained himself to do it only at full moons (pulling that particular myth into the narrative).

Stories like this have been done before and done much better. As far as the theme of exploring our animal nature is concerned, Lady into Fox by Garnett is a superior book that looks at the issue from the husband's perspective; he suffers by having to watch the woman he loves descend into a visceral existence that cannot include him. There is more subtlety and romance, more heartbreak and charm. But here, it's all rather self-pitying and devoid of awareness (hence aged badly). But hey, there's more sex and innuendo so that's something. Ultimately, when the protagonist is a self-indulgent narcissist who treats her own body as a disposable pleasure unit, it's hard to condemn or make judgements about anyone else doing the same. So all you're left with is a story about a 'lady of the night' feeling sorry for herself in a world where people don't treat each other very nicely or with respect.

You don't say?

 

6/10

[Hux]

Closely Watched Trains (1965) Bohumil Hrabal

 

Short and sweet coming-of-age story about a boy who, during the final stages of the second world war, works as a station guard at an isolated train station with his two colleagues. He details the comings and goings of various trains, those including goods, cattle and people. He tells us about his life in sporadic bursts and usually out of chronological order (which can occasionally be jarring), especially relating his trials and tribulations regarding losing his virginity and the failed suicide attempt that followed his premature ejaculation. Like his father, grandfather and great-grandfather, he endeavours to find a way to avoid working for a living and though not as successful as his forebears, he feels that he is ultimately doing a pretty good job of it.

The writing is crisp and clear, never too flowery or dense, and it goes by at a pace. The final chapter detailing his encounter with a German soldier has a great deal of pathos to it and leaves us with a feeling that Milos has never really been given a chance to live. Finally losing his virginity to an older woman who, more than anything, is simply doing him a favour, does, at least, give him a sense of becoming a man.

I would class this very short novella as more charming than profound. It's definitely worth a read and explores various themes such as war, loss, wasted potential, and heroism but never anything more than that. It's a gentle and thoughtful window into a time that's long gone.

 

7/10

[Hux]

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

 

 

Edited January 28 by Hux

[Hux]

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?

"You have to understand," Bronson said, "she's not really to blame. She couldn't live like that. It's not your fault either."

"Nobody's fault again," Jack said. "Nobody's ever at fault."

9/10

[Hayley]

On 2/3/2024 at 2:24 PM, Hux said:

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

The concept of this book sounds interesting but does it really ultimately conclude that nobody is to blame!? Or is that quote supposed to be ironic? The relationship between Billy and Jack and everything that happens in it involves only them. Having a child on the vague notion that you’re meant to even though you don’t want to actually parent a child… can that really be considered blameless? 

[Hux]

2 hours ago, Hayley said:

The concept of this book sounds interesting but does it really ultimately conclude that nobody is to blame!? Or is that quote supposed to be ironic? The relationship between Billy and Jack and everything that happens in it involves only them. Having a child on the vague notion that you’re meant to even though you don’t want to actually parent a child… can that really be considered blameless? 

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.

[Hux]

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

[Hux]

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

 

Edited February 15 by Hux

[Hux]

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

Edited February 19 by Hux

[Hux]

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

[Hux]

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

[Hux]

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:
 

'There's a drought and I await the rain. And you stand there and tell me: A hard rain is what we need. But what if it comes with hail? If it comes with a storm? If it ruins what I've sowed? Well, I'll tell you: I don't know how the rain will fall. I just want it to come. That's all. With hail, storm, lightning, as long as it comes. One or two will survive the deluge. Nobody will survive drought.'

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

[lunababymoonchild]

Great review, Hux

[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

[Hux]

Asylum (1996) Patrick McGrath

 

Enormously entertaining albeit noticeably flawed.

The premise is very basic. A psychiatrist (Max) arrives at an asylum for the criminally insane and lives on the grounds with his wife (Stella) and young son Charlie. Some of the patients (including a man named Edgar Stark) work on their garden and conservatory. Stella begins an affair with Edgar (a man who murdered his wife and beheaded her). All of this information is essentially given to us in the opening chapter by the narrator Peter Cleave who is also a psychiatrist at the hospital. What follows is his retelling of a passionate affair which spiraled into obsession and madness.

The book is well written but nothing special in regards to the prose; the real selling point of the novel is how gripping the story is and how well paced. I was impressed by McGrath's previous book Spider and was keen to read more of his work. Understandably (given that his father was superintendent at Broadmoor) he writes about mental illness quite a lot and has excellent (albeit cliched) insights. And this is where some of my criticism comes in. Stella is essentially presented as a rather feckless woman who, given the chance for some passion in her life, puts herself and others at risk. While it's believable and well realised, it does ultimately play into certain tropes and stereotypes about women. That age-old question: What do women actually want? McGrath covers all bases by conveniently making Edgar both brutish and sensitive. He murdered his wife and has possessive tendencies (best expressed in an aggressive sexual desire) but at the same time, he's an artist, a sculpture, with a sensitive soul and a creative humour. Do women want men to be dominant alpha males who possess a modicum of sexual threat and violence? Or do they want stability and caring? Probably both.

Then there are issues of the unreliable narrator (an issue also repeated in Spider). How does Peter Cleave know all these things about what happened? Put under any serious scrutiny, it doesn't actually add up. In the end, the book ultimately leaves you with the impression that Stella is as insane as Edgar but, by mere virtue of circumstances, has kept it well hidden until now. Not a new idea (we're all a little crazy) but one which is always intriguing. And obviously, it goes without saying that every single man she encounters sexualises her until she (rather unconvincingly I thought) submits.

With that in mind, I also felt that McGrath set the book in the late '50s for a reason. The liberal permissive culture of the 1960s was around the corner (and here to stay) bringing freedom and expression and excitement into our lives. And yet the stability and conservatism we all pretend to hate is something that we might not want to abandon quite so carelessly. Did we risk long-term contentment and security for nothing more than instant gratification? Did Stella?

Anyway, I found the book immensely fun to read. McGrath's writing never rises to a level of exquisite prose or literary profundity but it tells the story effectively with superb clarity and lucidity.

 

8/10

Edited March 8 by Hux

[Hux]

Two Serious Ladies (1943) Jane Bowles

 

Two bored upper-class women condescend to the lower classes and live in a word of utter luxury, privilege and ignorant detachment.

There are only three chapters. Chapter One is immensely boring and focuses on Miss Goering, a wealthy heiress who allows a random woman to move in with her followed by a random middle-aged man. They move to an island off the coast. Chapter Two focuses in Mrs Copperfield, a married woman who, with her husband, goes to Central America for a jolly. She wants to hang around with prostitutes because... reasons. Then Chapter Three goes back to the very dull and smug Miss Goering who now pops into town on the mainland to make the balls of men turn blue. The end.

Where to start with this? Chapter Two was really gripping because it seemed to be going somewhere salacious, as though Mrs Copperfield was a lesbian fiend who, with the permission of her husband, liked to screw young prostitutes. But Bowles only ever hints at things and never actually just comes out and says it. Mrs Copperfield and Pacifica (the prostitute) go back to her hotel room for example but then just... fall asleep. I dunno. It's all very vague and irritating. Just spit it out for Christ's sake! I felt like I was being given a hand-job by a woman then, just when I'm about to finish, she stops. I get that it's 1943 and she has to be subtle. But this went beyond subtle and was simply obfuscating matters needlessly. It was almost childlike.

Then back to the boring Miss Goering and I'm done. I'm sure people will tell me this is some great feminist take about women breaking free from their chains but no, it really isn't. It's two spoiled, privileged women who have no grasp of reality at all. Bowles was clearly a woman who never did a day's work in her life and assumed this was the norm and believed that the prostitutes she slept with actually liked her or something. Her husband, Paul Bowles, at least understood the privilege of their tedious ennui. Hence he has them die horribly or be repeatedly raped without the protection of their 'sheltering sky.' But Jane Bowles appears utterly ignorant of that reality and has these two women engage in behaviours that, in real life, would have resulted in being endlessly beaten or raped. But she presents it all as something quite twee and disposable.

And yet, I can't say that the book is entirely bad. It's well written and intriguing. I just don't think it's saying anything meaningful outside a room filled with posh people chattering about their little lives. I so wanted the prostitutes she met to tell her to fudge off. But no, they all want to be her friend because she's so lovely. Because that's life apparently.

 

6/10

 

 

Edited March 12 by Hux

[Hux]

The Recognitions (1955) William Gaddis

 

Took me forever to read this and even then I was skipping page after page and groaning with frustration and boredom throughout the entire ordeal. And ordeal is the word. If you're someone who takes a slither of narcissistic pleasure from reading absolute whoppers like this (that will make you feel more intelligent and cultured) then give it a whirl. If you have a life and bills to pay, however, you might wanna use it as a door stop because it's a bloated mess.

The story is basic: a man named Wyatt Gwyon ends up painting forgeries for a capitalist pig (his name is Recktall for goodness sake) and begins to lose sight of what is good art and bad art and religious imagery and blah blah blah Faustian pact, higgledy-piggledy, etc etc, who am I mommy? There's also some bloke called Otto (a writer) and Stanley but I lost lost interest by that point and was skim reading in the desperate hopes of finding a paragraph that might grab me and blow me away or make me weep for the exquisite prose or have a character who is fully realised and not just a block of wood uttering unrealistic dialogue; or maybe even just a fascinating flow of language that is lyrical and engaging... but nope, that wasn't happening.

What's annoying is that Gaddis can clearly write. But he can't tell a story for shhhhhhh. Some of the writing is indeed wonderful but it meanders and drags so much that it never finds its footing. You can tell its his first novel and you get the distinct impression that he's trying too hard to impress. Some will tell you that the difficulty is deliberate but that's never remotely demonstrated and the difficulty always comes across as nothing more than poor writing, pacing, character development, and a lack of experience at his craft. He doesn't know how to put it all together in a way that's cohesive and fun. There is NO FUN to be had here. NONE! And it's so sad because the man can write but he just doesn't have the skill to make it flow (perhaps this improved with his later works). It's like listening to a urine soaked tramp ramble on about something but every now and then they'll say something eloquent and beautiful but the fact remains, he's still a urine soaked tramp and the strong, pungent scent of wee fundamentally overrides any sense of engagement regarding the sudden moment of lucid language. Was it a fluke? Is it test? Do I give a shhhhhhh? Then there's the fact that Gaddis will drag an idea out far longer than he needs to. You can start a page and he'll be talking about a sandwich then skip four pages only to discover he's still talking about the damn sandwich but in language that is turgid and pointless. Art for arts sake I suppose. And that's fine but I have a life to live too Mr Gaddis and I'd appreciate it if you got to the fudgeing point!!

And yet. And yet, there's definitely something worth reading here. But the question is: are you willing to sacrifice the time and energy to slowly and methodically crowbar that something out? And will it be worth it? For me, it was a gigantic no -- I've got better things to do (weeding the garden for example). You might fair better. In fact, I might even kid myself that I was simply in a bad place when I read this (highly unlikely because I'm always in a bad place) because the only alternative I can find is that all you people claiming to love this book are doing so performatively. There's something slightly battered housewife about the reviews I've read. Something of the hostage claiming that the terrorists treated them well. So to all those who gave it rave reviews, I would like to ask them to read it again but this time with a camera videoing them to prove it. Already, I suspect their eyes are filling with globules of tears and they're beginning to shake and rock back and forth at the mere request. But saying you love mammoth literary tomes like this offers a high status reward. And some people care about that. Hell, I occasionally care about that. But I have learnt, with experience, that it's NEVER worth it.

I would still recommend it because... it's got something. But tread carefully because it will inflict upon you a level of tedium and banality that might make you want to punch yourself.

For me, life is too short.

 

4/10

[Hux]

The Green Face (1916) Gustav Meyrink

 

This was both strange and creepy. I'm tempted to describe it is a horror novel but it goes beyond that and is more surreal and disturbing. It reminded me a little of 'The Tenant' by Torpor in the sense that it was just a little unnerving and obscure. Written at the height of the war in 1916, the book actually takes place after the war has ended and implies (quite correctly as it turns out) that the consequences of this war will change the world and lead to even greater upheaval. Especially, Meyrick predicts, for the Jews.

A man named Hauberisser lives in Amsterdam and visits a magic shop where he encounters a creepy old Jew who works there. As the book goes along, his friends and others have also seen this 'wandering' Jew either in paintings or in real life. He has a green, bronze face and seems to be neither a harbinger of good nor bad. What follows is Hauberisser trying to make sense of what he has seen and what it might mean. He returns to the magic shop only to discover that it has a new name and no-one knows anything about the Jewish bookkeeper. Meanwhile, Hauberisser has a friend named Pfeill who has friends who appear to be in a spiritualist cult. One of them is murdered by a Zulu warrior (did I mention there's a Zulu warrior?). Then he meets a woman called Eva who he instantly falls in love with (there follows a chapter where the Zulu warrior follows her and tries (via some African magic) to control and rape her). She then disappears. But reappears in a haze of fog and dies. I mean... it's all a bit weird and hard to explain. But it's good.

I enjoyed it a lot and was fascinated by the creepiness of it all. There are huge swathes of Jewish and Christian myth involved and, to be fair, those parts of the book were the only ones that I didn't care for. I find it hard to take religion seriously especially when it takes itself so seriously. Meyrink throws a lot of this stuff at the reader and talks about Elijah and Cabala and a bridge from this world to the world beyond. From a religious point of view it didn't interest me. But from a creepy novel point of view it was highly effective.

A strange and interesting book. 

 

7/10