The Plague - Albert Camus

I didn’t dare reading Camus until I turned 28. I was afraid it would be too heavy, too grim, too deep (too French?). I was wrong.

One of those books (many, lately) that I couldn’t put down. One character more interesting than the other (my favourite being, clearly, Tarrou, with his fight against the Francoists in Spain and against the epidemic in Algeria). Without needing to analyze the book as a metaphor of the struggles of everyone’s lives, or of the evils of the 20^th century, this is simply one of the greatest stories ever told.

As I read it I kept on trying to portray myself as Tarrou, or as Dr Rieux. Like a little boy, I really wish I could “do the right thing” in the same way as they did in the novel (and, unlike in Spike Lee’s movie, here, it is quite clear what the right thing actually is)

Revolutionary Road - Richard Yates

I really wish someone had actually told me to read this book a few years ago. Luckily, I stumbled into it in our office’s “library” – where unwanted books go to die.

As stereotypically American (and suburban) as an Hopper painting, Revolutionary Road is about an ante-litteram desperate housewife, her husband with his dull 9-to-5 job, and the conflict between the hustle and bustle of New York City (where he works) and the boredom of their house.

As April writes to Frank: “Don’t blame yourself”. I would like to send this message to whoever dumped the book in our office: it’s all right, not everybody has to love this kind of literature, I’m just glad you didn’t and you gave me one of the best books I’ve ever read...

The Last Word - Hanif Kureishi

I am biased. I’ve met Hanif Kureishi when I was working as a pseudo-interpreter for a literary festival on the Italian hills.

That said, I am not biased enough to consider this one of the best books ever written. It is a pleasant read, and the dynamic between the two main characters (an accomplished author and his biographer) is interesting enough. That said, some of the author’s customary “rock” remarks end up a bit lost in this generational and cultural conflict.

Clearly, the question of identity – in particular British identity – is asked time and again, as is often the case with Kureishi. Can someone tell Theresa May that, if Mamoon is allowed to feel British, so should I...

Blood Meridian - Cormac McCarthy

For two thirds of the book I had no idea what was going on. People were getting shot. People were getting scalped. There was a kid, “the” kid, a judge, “the” judge, and a bunch of minor characters that all meshed into one non-distinct blood-thirsty outlaw.

After a while the book started making sense, but too late to actually attract my interest or give me any sort of emotion. McCarthy’s prose remains unique, obviously, but that doesn’t mean that reading hundreds of pages that all blur into one has to be an enjoyable experience...

NW - Zadie Smith

Zadie Smith is one of those people I would love to hate. Young, beautiful, supremely talented.

NW is a delightfully quick read, although I did spend a good couple of hundred pages thinking that – while undeniably well-written – the book didn’t really seem to be of the same calibre of, say, White Teeth. Despite being intriguing, the two female protagonists are not exactly likeable (unlike Felix and, in his way, Nathan)  and at times seem excessively stereotyped.

As often happens with great writers, however, the last page is undeniably jaw-dropping. The kind of thing that makes me wish I was still living in North London.

Luckily, although I now live south of the river, I can still go to the Seven Stars for a pint after work – much like Keisha Blake, who seemed a lot nicer before changing her name to become Natalie.

A Life Like Other People's - Alan Bennett

 

In many ways this is the book that inspired this project. Far from being my favourite Alan Bennett work, the author’s struggles with his mom’s dementia and depression nonetheless made me think of how even my own self-proclaimed prodigious memory is already (at 28) showing its fallacies. 

If someone asked me for my all-time 10 favourite books, one name I would definitely throw in there is Heinrich Böll’s The Clown. Yet, I now realize that – having read it more than a decade ago – I remember the way I felt when I was reading it, but I have no idea what its plot actually is. I have now decided to write down a few lines about pretty much every book I’ve read – despite the fact that, I’m afraid, I’ll probably have to use Wikipedia in order to remember what many of these books were about. This is more for me than for an audience, yet my wife suggested I make it a blog rather my usual spreadsheet.

Anyway, this book by Alan Bennett is about more than the depression and dementia of his author’s mother. Bennett raises a number of points that are crucial for everyone who has ever had to care for his (grand)parents: why do we do that? Shouldn’t they just be allowed to go? When their minds, or their capacity to express their emotions, appear to be lost, are they still the people we loved? Do we look after them for their own good, or simply to feel good (or at least ok) about ourselves? 

It’s not like these questions have never been asked, and Bennett’s answers (when he has them) are not exactly groundbreaking – but he just writes so beautifully.