Hux Book Blog 2024 (Spoilers)

[Hux]

Study For Obedience (2023) Sarah Bernstein

 

Mediocre, middle class navel-gazing of such a banal self-indulgent degree that it made me feel like I wanted to headbutt a wall. This right here, this genre, this style, whatever you want to call it... I absolutely loathe it! The whimsical gazing out to sea, oh, the begonias, the begonias, the endless internal search for meaning, the autumn leaves floating on a strange breeze, the... whatever! I just despise this kind of writing. I'm not sure if there's a term for it but I come across it more and more these days and very usually from women writers. Just relentless navel-gazing and pondering and ruminating and oh, the begonias. But never with any charm or wit or bite.

The story concerns a woman going to the north of a foreign country where her brother lives and there are some townsfolk. And she's submissive. And she loves to ruminate and ponder and gaze out at the sea. Or whatever. Who cares? I lost interest. And the townsfolk don't like her. And there's an allegory for the holocaust. And vague. So very vague. And there's a dog. And blah blah feminist allegory. And as she's gazing at things, she also asks questions. Another sign of bad writing. 'Why did the sky look like that? What was holding me back? Where did that path lead?' And there's a references section at the back, something writers only include so that you can marvel at their interests, their unique genius.

I would read a paragraph, then discover that I had taken none of it in, my mind elsewhere, so unutterably bored by what I was reading. So I'd read the same paragraph again and find the same tedious nothing full of indulgent triviality and empty words. Then this would happen again. And again. On every page. Just a never-ending lack of interest in any part of her whiny existence. None of it reaching me, none of it being remotely engaging. My mind was screaming for something to matter. Even the fact that the book is short didn't help. I'm only amazed she didn't write in stream-of-consciousness. That's usually what mediocre writers hiding their mediocrity do. Like trying to read a book made of water. Booker prize people want shooting. They really do.

I can only gaze whimsically upon the begonias so many times.

 

4/10

[Hux]

Chaos and Night (1963) Henry De Montherlant

 

A book that had the potential to be something great but never got there. The writing is plodding and dense, too busy pushing the narrative and the buffoonish protagonist along to find the time to be anything more than prosaic. It's not unreadable but it's certainly not fluid either. It reminded me a little of Man's Fate by Malraux both in terms of style and subject matter (that book also underwhelmed).

The story focuses on Don Celestino, a Spanish exile living in Paris with his daughter Pascualita after having fought and lost against the Franco fascists. He is an anarchist with communist sympathies and, having been reduced to an insignificant foreigner, has become a tedious blowhard who massively overestimates his importance. After 20 years away from his homeland he receives news of his sister's death and decides to return despite the risks. In Madrid he is shocked to discover that normal life continues, cinemas and cafes, people getting on with life, America's influence to be seen everywhere. Was it all for nothing? Well, of course it was. There are definite Don Quixote allusions being drawn here, an oafish, old fool whose life was never that important or worthwhile to begin with, especially in the face of mortality (is anyone's?). Meanwhile his daughter acts as a kind of bewildered Sancho Panza, trying desperately to respect her father's intellect and influence but always knowing that it is predominantly a fictitious creation. Celestino is clown, a man who has dedicated his life to windmills and performative commie nonsense (people still do this) and he is always presented by De Montherlant as a dullard, an oaf, a delusional idiot. The politics are a sideshow but are effective in illustrating Celestino's infantile view of the world.

But I can't say that any of it was especially fun to read. De Montherlant's writing was not something that ever excited me and even less so his story. It drags on. It relies on you being thoroughly entertained (loving or hating him) by Celistino as a caricature, a bloated and monstrous creation that has elements of Ignatius J Reilly about him (another character that I found significantly less interesting than others). I can't say I hated the book. But I definitely did not like it and would probably not recommend with any enthusiasm.

 

5/10

Edited August 4 by Hux

[Hux]

This Tilting World (2019) Colette Fellous

 

A beautifully written piece in the sense that she effectively creates a lyrical style which allows each page to melt away in your hands. It's fluid and gentle, often without pauses or full stops, but so well written that it flows smoothly, always drawing you further in. I would say that her prose is generally quite crisp, never anything more innovative than this, and the real quality of her writing is found in the content of her words rather than the words themselves. It was a joy to read, like being on the balcony of her Tunisia home and listening to the waves.

As far as the story is concerned, there isn't one; it's unquestionably a novel which combines fictional narrative with real life, perhaps even best described as autofiction - I dunno, it's hard to describe. It begins with her receiving a phone call and discovering that her friend, Alain, has died. This triggers a series of memories around her own father's death and a general outline of the life she has lived between France and Tunisia, not to mention her Jewish ancestry. The book has a distinct voice which is ethereal in nature, often vague and meandering, prone to the kind of navel-gazing I generally dislike but Fellous knows when to stop romanticising the past and when to return to the ugly present (there are lots of references to the terrorist acts happening in Tunisia, the Charlie Hebdo incident, the general feeling of unease). She ultimately decides to return to France but explores her life between these two worlds.

As much as I enjoyed it, for some reason I felt less engaged after the halfway point -- I'm not sure why. Her reminiscing becomes less meaningful, less enticing, but the book always remains immensely readable. It is the embodiment of the reflective novel, the gentle reminiscing of a life gone by. But it never becomes mawkish or cloying, never indulgent or deliberately obscure. I give her immense credit for that (others often fail quite badly). I could practically smell the almond and orange cake, the sweet incense, the salt in the ocean. I was very much in the warmth of a north African sun. The book was ultimately a very delicate and gentle experience, one which I breathed in with interest and exhaled with satisfaction. Would recommend. 

 

8/10

[Hux]

The Drowned World (1962) J. G. Ballard

 

A slightly dull but well written story about a future (2145) where the planet's temperature has drastically increased and the sea levels have risen to the extent that the world is now a tropical environment and cities like London are monstrous swamps and lagoons. Ballard does a good job of creating a world you can easily visualise, all drenched in sweat and humidity, burning with heat, green, lush and maddening. That all worked and I could see the environment perfectly and found the idea of a submerged London exciting and curious.

The problem comes with the plot which for me just wasn't very interesting. Most people (civilisation as we know it) live somewhere up in Greenland while scientists and soldiers are sent south to investigate what's going on in the abandoned cities. One of these scientists is Kerans and the plot ostensibly follows his dealings with other scientists exploring the lagoons and wildlife of London. Again, the scenes Ballard conjures are great and you can feel the clammy warmth clinging to your skin. But the story just doesn't go anywhere. There's a guy called Hardman who inexplicably decides to run off in a boat rather than return north. There's a bunch of scavenger pirates led by a man called Strangman whose motives aren't entirely clear but he apparently wants to pump the water out of certain parts of London and reveal what's under there. Meanwhile there was something going on regarding people's dreams which I didn't fully grasp (or care about).

I wanted to get in on the ground floor with Ballard before reading his later (better) works so decided to start here. But it wasn't my cup of tea. If you're into sci-fi or post apocalyptic stories, you might like this. Otherwise, it's pretty generic stuff.

 

5/10

[Hux]

Walden (1854) Henry David Thoreau

 

Sometimes you read a book and desperately want to love it because you know, based on its reputation, that it's clearly a great work of literature. And I so wanted to love this. But it never quite happened. Yes, there are parts of the book which provide some truly exquisite prose but then there are parts that detail the intricate qualities of planting beans. Such is life. Like most people, I was aware of the book before reading it, almost felt I had, in fact, already read it, and sure enough my expectations were probably much higher than they needed to be. The story of a man (Henry David Thoreau) who chooses to live in seclusion for two years and, in doing so, gives us his thoughts on the experience, and on life itself.

My first problem (and this becomes more apparent as you read) is that he doesn't really live in any kind of meaningful seclusion; at worst, he lives at the end of a long street from the main village and even then still encounters rail workers, fisherman, and general passers-by. This slightly alters the experiment of living alone in the wilderness. Not that it matters because the book isn't really about that, it's about his worldview, his philosophy, his relationship with nature. As far as that is concerned, Thoreau is clearly a brilliant man, with a wonderful intellect and a poetic soul. Some of his wisdom is probably already familiar to you.
 

"I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life,"

"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation."

The book had moments that were truly amazing to read, sections where it felt like I was reading some of the most accomplished and beautiful sentences imaginable. But again, for every page where that was the case, there were six or seven pages where the book became rather dry and hard to engage with, walls of text that offered no respite or elevation. And yet you keep reading hoping that you don't miss the next moment of magical prose or some profound insight into the human condition. If I were to read this book again (or recommend it to others), I would probably dip in and out of it, without worrying about chronological order, fully ingesting the words, before putting the book aside for a while, and repeating the process. That way you can more thoroughly immerse yourself in the language and enjoy the stand-out moments with greater pleasure.
 

"Sometimes I rambled to pine groves, standing like temples, or like fleets at sea, full rigged, with wavy boughs, and rippling with light, so soft and green and shady that the Druids would have forsaken their oaks to worship in them; or to the cedar wood beyond Flint's Pond, where the trees, covered with hoary blue berries, spiring higher and higher, are fit to stand before Valhalla, and the creeping juniper covers the ground with wreaths full of fruit; or to swamps where the usnea lichen hangs in festoons from the white spruce trees, and toadstools, round tables of the swamp gods, cover the ground, and more beautiful fungi adorn the stumps, like butterflies or shells, vegetable winkles; where the swamp-pink and dogwood grow, the red alderberry glows like eyes of imps, the waxwork grooves and crushes the hardest woods in its folds, and the wild holly berries make the beholder forget his home with their beauty, and he is dazzled and tempted by nameless other wild forbidden fruits, too fair for mortal taste."

Moments like the above are found within a swamp of text that too often doesn't allow you to fully appreciate what you're reading. Or it becomes lost amid a series of dry reflections that lack as much bite. As such the book failed to entirely entertain me but was one which I will probably revisit again in the future, and probably on more than one occasion. There is obviously something great here even if I couldn't fully embrace it this time round. But that's alright because if I did not like the book as much as others then perhaps this is because...
 

"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer."

 

7/10

(less)

[lunababymoonchild]

I bought the complete works because you were reading this. I look forward to reading this myself.

[Hux]

The Painted Veil (1925) W. Somerset Maugham 

 

A rather straight-forward novel but one which is well written and very entertaining. Maugham appears to have a fixation with people falling in love with people who don't love them back (he really pushed this theme in Of Human Bondage). I can only assume that, once upon a time, he had an especially bad experience in this regard (as the unloved) and wrote about it as much as he could to exercise some demons. As such, there's a certain amount of moralising which suggests he didn't quite get over it and this story is the embodiment of that, his ultimate lament (directed at whoever hurt him) being that... you ought to bloody grow up!!

In this instance the person in question is Kitty, a young and frivolous woman who marries for convenience rather than love. Her husband is dull, shy, lacking in natural charm and obvious social skills, and the book opens with the two of them moving to Hong Kong where Kitty and her lover Charles Townsend worry that he has come home early and heard them in the bedroom. As it turns out, they were right. The husband, Walter, gives Kitty an ultimatum. Convince your lover to leave his wife for you and I will agree to a divorce. Otherwise, go with him to a cholera ravaged part of the country to help those in need. Unsurprisingly, the latter is what follows.

The story is ostensibly about Kitty being forced to grow up by these new circumstances and discovering that her desires and interests are trivial and empty. Yet despite her development and new found maturity, she cannot help still being overwhelmed by lust and passion in the presence of Townsend (which begs the question: did she grow up as much as she thinks?). Personally, I wasn't convinced.

The book is very easy to read and a lot of fun. Maugham writes beautifully on occasion and knows how to maintain a good pace. Short and sweet. Very good.

 

8/10

[Hux]

Transit (1944) Anna Seghers

 

Generally, I can tell within a few chapters if I'm going to like a book or not; and I knew very early on that I was not going to like this. The problem the book has is that it's one of those novels that tries to explore a big theme, one which, through painstaking effort, requires a rather dry style and an extremely prosaic level of prose. It's not an easy thing to do successfully and even when people do succeed, it's not always the most fun to read (hello Kafka). The theme Seghers is exploring is the mind-numbing banality and stifling nature of bureaucracy (especially in regards to refugees trying to find the legal means of moving from one country to another). But, for me, she makes the mistake of allowing her own story to become as dull as the subject matter she's addressing.

The story is narrated by a young nameless man (though it always felt like a very feminine narration) who, after escaping a Nazi camp, and going to Paris, comes across the unfinished novel of a dead man and is tasked with delivering it to him in Marseilles (where he seeks the man's wife instead). This is where the book begins to wallow in repetition and Kafkaesque regurgitation. He goes to the Mexican consulate to discuss a visa. He goes to a cafe and speaks to a friend about getting a visa. He goes to the American consulate to discuss a visa. He goes to another cafe to chat with a Corsican about getting a visa. He goes to the Brazilian consulate to discuss a visa. He has a pizza and discusses a visa. He speaks to his friend Binnet about going to the consulate to get a visa.

It's just excruciatingly boring.

Like I said, this kind of existentialist book is hard to do. The risk of exploring the banal, mediocrity of life and its oppressive institutions can often lead to a book that is equally as tedious as the thing it's exploring. Even when it's done well, it can be very VERY dry. A good example of this would be Buzzati's The Tartar Steppe which, by the skin of its teeth, barely manages to explore the tedium of life and its pointless endeavours. But I'd say Buzzati just about pulls it off despite large amounts of the book being very slow and plodding due to the necessity of writing stories like this (they don't demand wonderful prose after all, only that the theme is properly explored). Seghers doesn't even come close to accomplishing this. Her writing is as basic as it gets, bland, perfunctory, dull. And her story is possibly one of the most boring you will ever encounter. That she's attempting to explore an interesting idea is redundant. Poking a turd with a stick might produce important knowledge that benefits mankind.

But it's still just... poking a turd with a stick.

 

4/10

[Hux]

A Hero of Our Time (1840) Mikhail Lermontov

 

Another book which many seem to have a high opinion of but which I found slightly underwhelming. I mean, it's well written and everything (as you'd expect from a 19th century novel since back then most people were uneducated but the educated were VERY educated) but it's all rather standard stuff for the time. There was nothing here that was especially ground breaking or new. It's just... a 19th century scoundrel does some stuff. The framing of the piece was potentially the most interesting aspect (starting with his last adventure, then having his stories recounted by an old friend, followed by his own diary entries). But like I said, the actual content of these stories is very basic.

So it starts with a narrator (a traveller) meeting a fellow traveller called Maxim Maximych who tells him a story about his old friend Pechorin. The story concerns him abducting a woman called Bela then, when she finally submits to him, realising that he's not that interested in her after all. What a cad and a bounder! The next story has Maxim and the narrator briefly meeting Pechorin. Then we have Pechorin's own diary entries before finally, a story about fatalism. The diary section involves Pechorin meeting yet another woman whom he pursues despite admitting that he doesn't actually want her after all. Then there's a duel with a friend who is a potential suitor to the same woman.

I have to say... none of these stories were especially interesting to me. I'm slightly bewildered by the book receiving such high praise from so many corners. It's well written but it's never anything truly magnificent. Sure, Pechorin is a great character, a proper Byronic scoundrel who treats 'em mean and keeps 'em keen, but I'm not sure there's much else to say here. He's a brooding ideal of a man which, by modern standards, most people would agree is a total dick! Yet there's something compelling about him and the narrator (perhaps meant to be Lermontov himself) admits his own bias by confirming that what he thinks of Pechorin can be found in the title he gave the book: A Hero of Our Time. But to me, he was never more than a mildly distracting man of 19th century flim-flam.

 

So yeah, the book is fine, completely fine.

 

5/10

[Hux]

The Book of the Unnamed Midwife (2014) Meg Elison

 

I enjoyed this. From a literary point of view, it's a somewhat unremarkable work written using very basic prose and offering the standard post apocalyptic tropes. But it was fun.

The story concerns a young, unnamed woman who survives a virus that kills almost everyone else. It seems to kill women at an even higher rate than men and children born in this new world always appear to die minutes or hours after birth. Given the sparsity of women, they understandably become a commodity that men buy and sell, abuse and control. This is where the book finds its only true moment of originality; in the form of the unnamed midwife traipsing across the wasteland and offering these abused women birth control and STD treatment. It's an interesting idea, one I haven't seen before, the midwife offering family planning in a world where women are turned into sex objects and where pregnancy can be a death sentence. She cuts her hair short and pretends to be a man, understands that in the new world her feminist narratives have lost a lot of their currency. She's not always a likeable character (often a good thing) and has a tendency to exude a certain sense of superiority.

After a few varied encounters, she meets some Mormon survivors and holes up in a house at the edge of town where they know of her presence. The book spends a long time here with one of the female Mormons coming to live with her because she's pregnant. Later, the father also joins them and we have a chunk of the novel being about their developing relationships and the eventual birth of the child. The book slightly changes pace here and we get some sudden, out-of-the-blue sexual language that felt a little incongruent with the rest of the book. My clit this, and my clit that, etc. It was around this point that I acquired that feeling I hate acquiring when reading a book -- that I'm being lectured to by a smug left-winger. It comes from the unnamed midwife but it's more obviously coming from Elison and I could have done without it. There's plenty of trans and queer and feminist drivel to contend with which feels entirely redundant in this post-apocalyptic environment. It's only a small criticism and I would dismiss it along with the occasional clunky writing and the occasional jumps forward in time (not to mention that we get narration about what's going on in the rest of the world. Why? It's supposed to be the book of the unnamed midwife, not the book of everyone else who survived -- that stuff was unnecessary). Then we have all the diary entries which are written in italics. That wasn't always fun to read either. But none of this really spoils the book.

Overall, very enjoyable stuff. I enjoyed this world, liked the little details, the barren landscape, the scavenging, the settling down for winter in one place and staying warm by the fire. It was an entertaining story that kept me engaged. The writing is a little clumsy and inexperienced but the story was good and the character of the unnamed midwife (Alex, Dusty, Jane, all the many names she goes by) was very fleshed out and very compelling. 

 

8/10

[Hux]

Last Words From Montmarte (1996) Qui Miaojin

 

The first few chapters of this book (more precisely the first few letters she writes to her lover) almost made me want to quit given that they were the whining laments of an angst ridden teenager. It was just endless 'why don't you love me? I'm so lonely. Life is so unfair, you love me but you just don't know it' etc, and it was irritating to say the least. But as I kept reading, she finally fleshed out her world a little more and incorporated other aspects of living, certainly enough that I was gradually more invested by the content. But nonetheless, the book is essentially one big whine about being betrayed by her lover, letter after letter about the depths of her love and her unhappiness. It wasn't exactly what i would describe as fun to read.

The book is a collection of letters she has written to her lover Xu. Sometimes it's letters to her lover Yong and, at the end, it's letters she (Zoe) receives. This gives the whole book a sense of auto-fiction, especially when you consider that Qiu Miaojin killed herself after this book.

As such, we have the issue of authenticity. This does not feel like a novel, it feels like a suicide note. And frankly, I didn't feel comfortable reading her suicide note. And yet there's the possibility that this is a genuine piece of fiction. But it's hard to see it that way (certainly for me). The fact that Qui Miaojin repeatedly references Dazai's 'No Longer Human' a book which was essentially his own suicide note, further muddies the waters. Maybe I'm wrong but I found it impossible to interpret this book as anything other than her real experiences.

And as those experiences go, they didn't really reach me. I found the whining tedious and immature (and self-indulgent) and I found the rest of her life a little, I dunno, performative? Her lesbian relationships made for a diverting exploration of early to mid nineties attitudes (though to pretend the 90s was somehow like the 50s is disingenuous) and her Taiwanese background may have added to a sense of otherness in this regard; plus her notions of maleness and femaleness will no doubt fascinate contemporary audiences (while they slightly bored me).

I honestly can't say the book held my interest with any success and even when it momentarily did, it felt voyeuristic and sullied. There are pieces that are of some worth but overall, I just found the relentless misery, wailing, and navel-gazing grating. Poor me. Poor me. And yet, she did actually top herself so maybe I should be more impressed, more reverent. And yet I'm not. It was just a little too self-indulgent for my liking. The way she implied her lover will have to live with her suicide. The way she referenced Dazai and... I dunno, it was just a tad juvenile. If you're a lesbian (or just one of those people who pretends to be queer as an alternative to having personality) then you might find something of value here. All I found was a teenager threatening to kill herself if you refused to bend to her will. The fact that she followed through with it doesn't add weight to her complaints. 

 

5/10

Edited August 25 by Hux

[Hux]

Under The Volcano (1947) Malcolm Lowry

 

Sound and fury... signifying nothing. Christ, this was awful.

So we'll start with the mind-numbingly tedious plot. Some posh English 'ooh, that's rude' in Mexico are having trouble dealing with the mammoth task of being posh English 'ooh, that's rude' abroad. There's the consul, Geoffrey, an alcoholic whose wife has left him. He swans about the streets and bars being intoxicated whilst hallucinating. His wife, Yvonne, returns to Mexico from America to try and salvage their marriage. Meanwhile, his brother Hugh (has also possibly banged the missus), a commie singer-songwriter shows up. Chin Chin! Then there's Laruelle, a French film director (also banged the missus). They all swan about and drink. Then they go on a bus trip to Tomalin and take in a bullfight... then...

Look, none of this matters because the book is utterly appalling. Some of the most gloopy prose I've ever encountered, full of dense treacle that somehow, despite the educated levels of grammar and English, manages to be entirely lacking in any wit, charm, or fluidity. It's just a thick swamp of verbosity and slop. Now I'm sure there are those who will tell me that Lowry writes a neat and tidy sentence and I would agree. But that's my entire problem with this book. It's so dead behind the eyes. Of course he writes a tidy sentence, he's a privately educated, Cambridge graduate who grew up in a mock Tudor mansion with a tennis court. Christ, his butler could probably write a half-decent sentence merely by virtue of standing next to the man. This is a writer who embodies the privilege of that era, a man who, as a boy, probably walked up to his mother and said: 'mummy, I want to be a writer,' and she replied... 'sure, whatever.' Because it wasn't actually his mother, it was the housemaid on a fag break. But whatever, the point is... he gets to be a writer now because that's what the posh little turd wanted.

The days where these kinds of men just rock up and get taken seriously by everyone are thankfully over. Today, he'd be forced to settle for a career in banking. These people ought to be forced to work in mines (with their butlers) but hey, progress is slow. At least they don't get publishing deals for their 18th birthday anymore.

The man can write, but only in so much as he is a very well-educated individual. Beyond that, there is no real beauty here, no exquisite turn of phrase or unique insight. It's not enough to be a privately educated posh lad abroad, you need to excite my soul with something crisp, refreshing, breathtaking, magical. This book was just a forest of noise and bloated entitlement, mediocre in its exploration, prosaic in its execution, and worst of all, over inflated in its significance. The book is dry and soulless. I challenge ANYONE to give me just one example of a line from the book that is lyrical, enchanting, exquisite, or elevating. Just one. A line that made you feel like your heart was about to explode with rage, joy, or sorrow.

I have never read anything quite so full of bluster and self-importance yet which offers NOTHING, not a solitary moment of sincere beauty.

Or, to quote Bukowski (who sums my feelings up more accurately) and criticised the book for its lack of pace, quickness, life, sunlight, juice and flavour. "I yawned myself to shhhhhhh."

 

3/10

[Madeleine]

sounds like it's dated badly, to say the least.  

[Hux]

2 hours ago, Madeleine said:

sounds like it's dated badly, to say the least.  

 

There are others who will tell you it's one of the greatest novels ever written.

 

I cannot fathom why.

[Madeleine]

Yes I have heard that, I think it was made into a film at some point.

[Hux]

The Cormorant (1986) Stephen Gregory

 

A man (the narrator) and his wife (Ann) and small baby (Harry) inherit a cottage in Wales from an uncle (Ian) but his will stipulates that he must also look after his bird, a cormorant, as part of the deal (why?). So this family now live in the cottage and the husband keeps the bird (naming it Archie) in the backyard behind some chicken wire. One day, the bird attacks the cat and kills it, ripping its face off. Ann leaves with the baby and stays with her parents for a week. Meanwhile, the narrator seemingly bonds with the bird by going fishing with it. Then Ann and the boy return, then there's a very blunt ending.

I mean... it was fine. I was never bored reading this but the creepiness I was supposed to feel never really materialised. Maybe I just don't find horror very interesting. To me, it all seems a little silly and I never understand the motivations of the people involved let alone the malignant desires of the dead. If you simply read it as the mental disintegration of the protagonist then it's still a rather dry reading experience especially when you take into account the fact that Gregory really drags this out. It's a short story stretched out into a novella. Or maybe it's just the standard Poe-esque building of tension by describing the mundane daily experiences. I dunno, I really don't care for this genre in all honesty. Like I said, it feels a bit silly. Why is uncle Ian a dick? Why would he stipulate that you only get the house if you get the bird? Is he some kind of wacky japester? Why not just give the bird away and screw that crazy uncle and his inheritance. There's just something about books that are supposed to be creepy that require a lot of dumb convenience or coincidence or downright irrationality. I'm just left thinking... but why? Why would you do that?

But it was easy enough to read and certainly kept me intrigued enough to continue. The ending left me somewhat baffled I must say. It felt forced and cheap. The only truly creepy moment in this book comes in the form of the bath scene where husband and wife and son are all together and lathered up. It sort of comes out of nowhere and doesn't really add much to the story but it's unquestionably the most WTF moment. But if that moment is why this book is considered a transgressive classic then it's a very low bar. I had to read it twice to check what happened actually happened (of a sexual nature) then tried to grasp what the purpose of this scene was (inconclusive).

So yeah, overall, I enjoyed it. I was never bored. The writing is pretty basic stuff and occasionally dull and monotonous but it was okay. Worth a look.

 

7/10

[Hux]

The Black Book (1990) Orhan Pamuk

 

A lawyer named Galip discovers that his wife, Ruya, has left a note to say she is leaving him. He keeps this information from his family and begins to search for her, in the process discovering that his uncle, Celal, a columnist for a newspaper, has also seemingly vanished. He understandably assumes they have run off together and he tries to piece together the cause of their disappearance by investigating their shared lives. Gradually he starts to read Celal's old columns for clues and slowly but surely begins to accumulate aspects of Celal's own life.

This started well and I was engaged but gradually, towards the middle, started losing a little of my interest. The problem here is there is no story to speak of, only a kind of vague exploration of identity and while that can be interesting (writers do seem to come back to this subject matter on a very regular basis) the writing style and the format of the book made it a little too broad for my tastes. The book is set up so that there's a chapter concerning Galip's investigation followed by a chapter which is one of the columns written by Celal (which we are presumably expected to view as a clue to the character's motivations and whereabouts). This process repeats itself throughout the book (chapter about Galip's investigations, chapter of one of Celal's columns, and so on, etc). While I was generally invested in Galip's story, the columns by Celal's added little and felt like red herrings (maybe they were). As the book goes along, you are showered in references to Turkish history and literature which, while interesting, feels a little obscure and unfamiliar, especially in the context of what is, on some level, a murder mystery. But, of course, it isn't really - but merely mimics one. I had similar issues when I read Snow (a more conventional narrative), about the west and east struggling to co-exist as a theme. But here it was harder to come to terms with.

Somewhat unsurprisingly, the book then explores the concept of the self and identity in general. Writer's do seem to love this theme. Towards the end of the book, Galip is the one now writing the columns and there is a sense that these two men might actually be the same man (I really did think at one point this was going to be the twist at the end). The two men seemingly merge, blur the lines of identity, and start to resemble each other very acutely as Galip essentially starts to live Celal's life. The ending is rather blunt and opens up avenues for new, more sinister interpretations (namely concerning just how reliable the narration is) since it involves not just Galip as a confused protagonist but also Pamuk himself.

Overall, the book is very good but too long and too dense. So much could have been removed. It didn't grab me the way Snow did perhaps because it didn't offer the same kind of conventional narrative but instead one which explored ideas that needed a better delivery system. Pamuk is a wonderful writer but this one just felt a little loose and vague. The big ideas he's looking at never quite succeed in being realised as something profound or entertaining; I was never really moved or gripped. It's definitely worth a read though. 

 

7/10

[Hux]

Eileen (2015) Otessa Moshfegh

 

Quite tedious.

This book is called 'Eileen' but really it ought to have been called... 'Tease.' Because that's what the first 4/5ths of this book are, just endless teasing of what's to come. 'Then I met Rebecca but we'll get to her. Then my life changed but we'll get to that. Then I took my father's gun but we'll get to that.' It really is just the worst example of teasing the reader with some salacious and naughty twist that is endlessly signposted and pointed at (and which ironically turns out to be dumb and not even that shocking at all). But still, we have to build up to it so the first two thirds of the book are nothing but bland details of her life, all while constantly reminding you not to worry because... 'something sexy and interesting is gonna happen soon. Don't worry, it's gonna happen very soon. That Exciting twist that I promised, it's definitely coming. But in the meantime, he's more banal details of my fixation on a guy called Randy. Oh, and have I mentioned that I feel really sorry for myself?'

So the book is about 24-year-old woman in 1964 called Eileen who lives with her cartoonish alcoholic father and works in a kind of criminal correctional facility for boys. She hates herself, daydreams, isn't happy. Then one day a woman called Rebecca starts working there too. Then the twist ending. Yawn. But before you get to any of that, here's some more garbage about how she hates herself and the world and wants to run away one day, etc.

That a book this cynical and manipulative could be shortlisted for the Booker is yet another reminder not to take that laughable institution seriously. They know nothing of literature. We must stop them at all costs!! Anyway...

The bland plot with the signposted (get ready for it!!) twist was bad enough. But then we have the format of this book. Eileen is narrating these events from the perspective of being an old woman (at least ageing and grey she tells us). Yet as she reminisces about being a 24-year-old, she also has the 24-year-old version of herself reminisce about being even younger. Occasionally, she will even reminisce about being in her thirties, which, from the old narrator's point of view, is in the past, but from the book's perspective (really ours) is in the future. This is not how memories works. They're not dreams within dreams or files kept in a cabinet. It's a mess. And it serves no purpose other than to allow the narrator to be (pointlessly) omnipotent and untouchable (removing any possibility for tension). Then we have Rebecca, a woman with no character, no background, no meaning, and no motivation (for what she eventually does). She just turns up as a nice prop for the endless pages of teasing to finally pay off.

I can't express in words how mediocre this thing was. The writing's fine but the whole book is artless and without creativity. It's just... 'once upon a time I was normal then something amazing happened. But we won't get to that until the last chapter. Are you excited? Are you looking forward to the twist? It's gonna be so exciting and fun (spoiler: it isn't). 'But before we get to any of that, let me first bore you with many chapters about how I really don't think my breasts are very nice.'

 

4/10

[Hux]

War (1934) Louis-Ferdinand Celine

 

Before Celine ran away to Denmark in 1944 (seeing that the Germans were about to lose and his antisemitism was about to become problematic), he had written three more books but had to leave them behind in his apartment as he scarpered. He often claimed that these manuscripts had been stolen but it was only in recent years that this was revealed to be true. And so in 2022 they were finally brought to light.

With that in mind, it's worth noting that this book is both a first draft and very much incomplete. As such, the quality is affected and the context slightly altered. Nonetheless, there is enough here to justify publication and provide a coherent narrative. Most importantly of all, you get the very clear Celine voice in the piece, his cynicism, nihilism, and bitterness, his scattergun prose (albeit without the standard ellipses), and his dark, often puerile humour. And that's what I want more than anything else. Everything about the book screams Celine!

It begins with Ferdinand, a shell-shocked soldier in Flanders, making his way to safety after being badly injured. The majority of the book is set at the hospital he is taken to, and revolves around his experiences with his pal Cascade, a nurse who gives him hand-jobs, and his irritating parents. If you've read any of Celine's other work, you'll petty quickly know the character as well as the setting, placing this story at the beginning of both Journey and Guignol's Band, a prequel to both. As ever, it seems clear that Celine was somewhat destroyed by the Great War and his whole life (physical and mental) was defined by it. It's little wonder he returns to the subject so often. The story is of little importance (Cascade's prostitute wife, his overbearing parents, the slutty nurse) and the book is, like so much of his work, more concerned with his mental deterioration due to the war. Like so many others, it crippled him in more ways than one. But never enough so that his sense of the absurd and disgusting was ever diminished. The usual sexual scenes are aplenty and the ludicrous, overtly comical, nature of them is maintained. Celine wallows in the trauma of war but equally in the repugnant nature of humanity. He often reminds us that the war is literally stuck in his head, a lifelong tinnitus of explosions, noise, and buzzing, which will, he tells us, stay with him until he dies.

I enjoyed the book, but that's because I love Celine. If you're a fan, I would recommend this, if not, however, I would suggest it's probably too lightweight (100+ pages) and ultimately a mere shadow of his main works. The guys who put this together did their best to make it into something but overall, it remains the scruffy, first draft of an unfinished piece that Celine probably wouldn't have published without significant rewrites and further polishing.

 

8/10

[Hux]

The Dog Stars (2012) Peter Heller

 

I predominantly enjoyed this but wouldn't say it was anything more than a basic story, a cosy catastrophe narrative, empty calories, but satisfying (if you like the genre). And the bottom line is I do like the genre, post-apocalyptic stories being my guilty pleasure (even if they're bad). I knew very little of this book and within the first few pages discovered, to my horror, that it's written in a stream-of-consciousness style, at least at first glance. On closer inspection, however, I would say this was a writer doing an impression of stream-of-consciousness writing. Getting past those first few pages was a hurdle but gradually, I started to enjoy the book (more so because he was giving me context and background, something to get my teeth into, rather than because the writing was good). I would say that I enjoyed the story in spite of the writing. Although I did like the broken up paragraphs (often just a sentence).

The story concerns Higs, a survivor of a global flu that has killed 99% of the planet. He lives at a small airport near Denver and one day, meets a man named Bangley (a gun nut survivalist), and (along with his dog Jasper) the three of them make a decent place to live. Higs flies a small plane and scouts the area, checking the perimeter, and occasionally going further afield. This aspect of the story was interesting, his ability to travel greater distances demonstrating their isolation. On one trip, he goes so far that he won't be able to get back. He meets an elderly man and his daughter, and they plan their journey back to the airport. Higs lost his wife to the virus and this element of loss plays a significant role in the theme of the piece.

Ultimately, I would describe the book as an example of cosy catastrophe. It isn't saying much about the human condition that hasn't already been said before. The biggest selling point of the book is its post-apocalyptic setting. I enjoyed that aspect and probably would have liked more, a greater exploration of the vast environment, his camping expeditions with Jasper, even just the crackling of an open fire in a desolate world. But instead, we get a lot of action set-pieces and the standard trope of attackers who want what you have. As such, it's pretty generic stuff. The writing style is obviously an attempt to give the work more gravitas but it doesn't really succeed. If anything, the writing style will be inclined to put you off what is an otherwise fun and comforting story of love, loss, and hope, in a world where solitude is the norm.

Enjoyable but perhaps forgettable. One for fans of the genre.

 

7/10

[Hux]

Children Crossing (1979) Verity Bargate

 

There's a website dedicated to 'neglected' books and this was among them so I thought I'd take a look. As you can imagine, I couldn't find a new copy, only a brown and stained second-hand version that I managed to buy. And so I read it not expecting much. And it was fantastic.

The book is hard to describe without spoilers, that being said the biggest (and most significant) event of the book occurs quite early on so I'm not sure it's a spoiler so much as something that might colour your expectations of the reading experience going in. I already had an inkling of what was to come. The book begins with Rosie and her two children, Abigail (four) and Daisy (three), on a train to Cornwall where she intends to stay with her married friends, Tom and Jane. She is going there after discovering that her husband (Joe) has been having an affair with a woman called Helen. They spend their days at the beach, have meals together, have drinks, etc. Then, when driving back home, Tom slams on his breaks for a passing fox and a lorry crashes into the back of the car instantly killing Abigail and Daisy.

What follows is the story of Rosie dealing with this. She is understandably lost and begins to be looked after by John, the local doctor, who eventually takes her back to London and begins to become slightly obsessed with her. She is splitting into different people, wanting to find ways to feel alive, trying to understand what life will look like now. She can never exist in the same way again.

The book was genuinely gripping. I read through it very quickly and couldn't stop turning the pages. The writing is straight-forward but Bargate knows how to be concise, to the point, and waste no time or anything that is unnecessary. There is no fat, only meat. The book is a flash of trauma and shock, and even when the pace slows, the book maintains its sharpness, each chapter, short and slick, moving you to the next moment. I was completely sucked in. The story is dealing with a bleak scenario but it does so with rapid energy and brevity. Rosie becomes a shell of a human, eternally damned to walk the streets as a mother without children.

Short and (bitter)sweet.

 

8/10

[Hux]

Dom Casmurro (1899) Machado De Assis

 

Machado De Assis was very much ahead of his time when it came to writing. There is a very modern feel to his work, it being more self-aware and wry, more conscious of the reader, certainly more so than most of the contemporary pieces of the time, his books lacking that detached 19th century style which can often seem unrealistic and contrived. He is very much a modernist. Which is a bizarre thing to say when you take into account that his books regularly make casual mention of slaves.

And yet despite being unlike other writers of the time, I never entirely enjoy his writing as much as I probably ought to. It can often seem a little dry or belaboured. I didn't like The Posthumous Memoirs of Bras Cubas that much, found it ultimately quite prosaic and plodding (despite the unique qualities). But I liked this a lot more. I think because it deals with a more straight-forward story which doesn't add any bells or whistles. It keeps things very simple.

The story concerns Bentinho, a young 15-year-old boy living in Rio de Janeiro, and his love affair with Capitu. The book is narrated by a much older version of Bentinho and he begins by telling us how he received the nickname of Dom Casmurro. Then he tells us of his growing affection for the 14-year-old Capitu. Unfortunately, his mother is adamant that Bentinho should become a padre (a promise she made to God) and the bulk of the first part of the book is about trying to avoid letting this happen so that he can be with Capitu. His life is richly detailed during this period, and eventually he goes on to study at the seminar, making a friend called Escobar. As the book goes along he succeeds in changing his mother's mind and marries Capitu. At this point, the book suddenly changes gear quite dramatically, and we are given a revelation (at least in the eyes of Bentinho) which throws everything into question. Nothing is conclusive or proven, but a very pronounced idea comes into Bentinho's head and changes everything. Given that he is the narrator, it's unclear how much of it we should believe (even he has some doubts). But it was a twist ending that was slightly devastating. Is it the Lord's punishment for that broken promise, or is it simply Bentinho's guilt seeking a punishment for the same crime? Either way, the book ends on a very bleak note. And in many ways it was the ending that made the book.

I'm still not a convert of de Assis or his writing but this one was definitely a step up. Excellent (and extra points for a wonderful cover). 

 

7/10

[Hux]

Berg (1964) Ann Quin

 

If a Carry On film was turned into a stream-of-consciousness novel.

There are times when I read stream-of-consciousness novels and utterly despise them. Then there are times when I read stream-of-consciousness novels and find myself getting sucked in, lost in the narrative. Which of these two sensations I will experience seems to be arbitrary, random, and ultimately inexplicable. I slowly got into Land of Green Plums by Herta Muller and even found myself highly entertained by Christine Angot's Incest (a book many others seemed to hate). I don't know why I sometimes can be seduced and other times cannot, but the fact remains that when I dislike a stream-of-consciousness novel, I tend to absolutely loathe it with a passion!

Sadly, this comes under the latter category. Actually, that's not true, I didn't hate it, I simply didn't care enough for that. Instead I took this oddball story of a man tracking down his long lost father with the intention of killing him, and struggled to connect with its humour, its format, or its Freudian insights. Like I said, Carry on Camping but with an Oedipal complex and some cracking Blighty seaside smut (phwoar!!). But the writing appalled me. I simply hated it. The story is curious enough, with Berg finding his father shacked up with a younger woman whom he also fancies, his desire to kill him, the replacement of a clownish ventriloquist's doll, and all of this silliness saturated in quaint Britishisms and the endless presence of Brighton's piscatorial spoondrift. It's all rather interesting stuff but again... I come back to the writing. It simply infuriated me. Truth be told, even when I do like stream-of-consciousness, I only ever like it... never love it. Which is presumably why when I hate it... I truly, utterly, wholeheartedly, down to the marrow of my bones... despise it!
 

Fingers scratching the partition. Two beasts emerging, somewhere between head and belly; substantial food for only one, the third lingering, then leaps and devours everything, the remaining two face each other, which will die, the one above, or the one below? There I've lost interest in being the ring master, but shall I remain the impassive observer? Berg pressed himself against the partition, until it shuddered, and he thought someone coughed the other side, a rasping sound that - why yes unmistakable - and yet?

The above style either fills you with profound enjoyment or it sounds like the contrived mediocre nothing language of someone trying too hard. It can never be beautiful to me, too prosaic and obvious, too dependent upon the style above substance, the format, the delivery system, always taking precedent over the actual content. Sometimes this kind of writing might bring something to the table, but mostly it always seems (to me at least) to act as a method for masking what is, ultimately, a rather forgettable prose. And for some reason this kind of writing always feels strangely dated to me, as though the ideas of the experimental writers were, ironically, an expression of a specific time and place, weighed down by a psychology that is already redundant and archaic. The endless moments in the novel, for example, where his mother (a kind of floating consciousness in itself) witters on about wearing a warm coat or encourages him to mix with people. It was like Norman Bates hearing his mother telling him he's a dirty boy.

You either take an enormous amount of pleasure from this style of writing (independently of the story) or you don't. If you like stream-of-consciousness writing then there's a good chance you'll like this (think Ice by Kavan or The Limit by Rosalind Belben - two books I also did not care for). If, like me, however, your enjoyment of stream-of-consciousness is very hit and miss. Well, it's impossible to say if you'll like it or not. Go read it for yourself, I'm not your mother.

All I know is... I very muchly (MUCHLY) did not care for it.

 

4/10

[Hux]

The Pilgrim Hawk (1940) Glenway Wescott

 

Goodness, this was dull.

It concerns some posh people in a big house with servants in France and one day a couple, the annoying Cullens, arrive and -- get ready for the marriage analogy -- they bring a hawk with them. More specifically, the wife brings a hawk (as you do), and the narrator (a very blank individual) provides the details of this somewhat banal encounter. They have dinner for a start, then go for a walk on the grounds (owned by a loony politician), and get into arguments, and the husband resents the bird and sets it free (but it comes back ) and... oh, I couldn't tell you anymore, I was so bored.

It would appear that this bird is to be seen as a metaphor for marriage, the stifled need for freedom and individuality within the confines of a constraining environment which is inevitably taken away by domesticity and routine. I think that's the moral of the story here. I don't know. I don't care. Because I was so unutterably bored. Did I mention how bored I was? There's an introduction where Michael Cunningham compares this book favourably to the great Gatsby and I totally agree with him. Because that book is awful too, perhaps the most overrated piece of dry blah in history. But anyway...

The writing's fine, clear and concise, but goodness it's so very dull. If you've read one book about rich Americans swanning about Europe in the '20s, having dinner parties, and saying 'old sport' every now and then... you've read them all. You've read this. Did you enjoy it? No, of course not. Because it's as dry as a fat woman's thighs rubbing against each other on an unfeasibly arid autumn day. 

 

4/10

[Hux]

Annihilation (2022) Michel Houellebecq 

 

Houellebecq the romantic. Who would have thought.

The story of Paul Raison, a 50-year-old government employee who (in 2027) is involved in trying to discern the identities of a group of terrorists whose motivations are unclear. In his personal life he barely speaks to his wife anymore and has little interaction with his family. That is until his father has a stroke and once more they are brought back into his life. This includes his father's partner Madeleine, his religious sister Cecile and her husband Herve, his unhappily married younger brother Aurelien and his (cartoonishly) awful wife Indy. As the book goes along Paul reconnects with his family, his past, his wife, and his own mortality. The cyber terrorism plotline is essentially dropped (without resolution) and we focus primarily on Paul's personal life, which, towards the end of the novel, brings along a cancer diagnosis which only further demands deeper contemplation.

First of all the book is WAY too long and really didn't need to be. You get the distinct impression that Houellebecq is endeavouring to produce a more significant and mature piece of work. For the most part he succeeds but that isn't necessarily a good thing. There is a little too much sentimentality for my liking and his ultimate conclusion is: 'love is the answer.' Yet this clearly isn't the case and one gets the feeling that Houellebecq is kidding himself, perhaps intentionally, aware (as he apparently is) that this is his last book (or so he implies). Even when he's trying to sell this to the reader, he overtly acknowledges (both in Paul's and his father's medical care) that while everyone is considered equal in death, this is nothing but another deception. The wealthy (in the west especially) receive the comfort and care of qualified nurses, better quality procedures, greater respect and dignity, as well as the reassurance of morphine (and even euthanasia). Even death is dependent upon social norms and traditions. Yet Houellebecq does convey Paul and Prudence's relationship very effectively. Rather than falling in love, they rediscover their love after years of staleness, isolation, and detachment. Madeleine is a devout carer for Paul's father. Herve and Cecile are in each other's corner. Only poor Aurelien is lumbered with a disastrous woman (perhaps a metaphor for the bleeding heart liberal whose self-hate is contagious); she, after all, would rather be impregnated by artificial means with the child of a black man than her own husband's. No matter how bad life is for the others, at least they have love, something Aurelien almost accomplishes at the end (ultimately too late).

I've seen reviews where people say this book will appeal to his fans. I would say the complete opposite is true. This book might actually be something those who dislike his writing finally enjoy. The nihilism and black humour I expected just isn't there (getting an accidental blow job from his niece aside), and the book definitely feels different, has a different tone, and a less cynical outlook. His swipes at the decay of western civilisation felt more like they had been informed by age and conservatism than by any meaningful philosophy. Happens to the best of us.

Devaluing the past and the present in favour of times to come, devaluing the real and preferring the virtual reality located in a vague future, are symptoms of European nihilism more decisive than anything that Nietzsche could have come up with.

The liberal doxa persisted in ignoring the problem, in the naive belief that the lure of material gain could be substituted for any other human motivation, and could on its own supply the mental energy necessary for the maintenance of a complex social organisation. This was quite plainly false, and it seemed to Paul that the whole system was going to come crashing down, even if one could not at present predict the date or the manner in which it might occur -- but the date could be close, and the manner violent

While Houellebecq maintains his pessimism on a societal level, he has clearly embraced love in the personal as a means by which to prosper and advance. Perhaps his recent marriage to a much young woman was a catalyst for this outcome, perhaps if they divorce, he will return one day with a book full of hatred and bile. Who knows? As far as this book is concerned, I enjoyed it but thought it was lacking something. And as I said earlier, it was too long. Plus, I was surprised that the book wasn't a first person narration (probably should have been) and became slightly irritated with all the 'he said to himself, he thought to himself.' I also didn't like the references to the Matrix and pop culture, those felt like they trivialised the story somewhat (maybe that was the point, I don't know). Oh and after a while, I started to skip read the many dream sequences in the first half of the book (the first three were enough). I would skim the paragraphs until I saw the words 'Paul woke up' then start reading again. And for someone who doesn't like us Anglos (making us wait two years for a translation for goodness sake), he sure seems to love English culture.

Flawed as it is, overall, I would say this was a great addition to his canon. Possibly even a perfect ending. Love is the answer. Who knew?

 

8/10