A book that my mom read in translation, than
found among the remainders in a London bookshop and bought for me. I rarely
read contemporary best-sellers – partly because I enjoy feeling different,
partly because when they are good (as in this case) they can be captivating,
entertaining, and pleasant enough to read, but very rarely great.
Capital is, much like so many recent British
novels, about the lives of a number of urban individuals and families from the
most diverse backgrounds and how they are brought together by an event or
another. Problem is: Lanchester is not Zadie Smith and his story – for catching
that it is – ultimately lacks the kind of irony and acuteness that Smith
normally has.
Capital hits all the right notes in a way
that is so perfect that it looks staged: of course the reader feels warmed by
Freddy Kamo’s enthusiasm, Smitty’s memories of his youth with his grandmother,
or Zbigniew/Bogdan’s pursuit of Matya – but it often reads as if Lanchester is
only ticking boxes and going through the motions. Also, to make sure that the
majority of the readers feels happy by the end, all stories either have
positive finales or at least finales with a significant hint of hope (the
possibility of a post-Mugabe Zimbabwe and redemption for former City
alpha-male), maybe with the sole exception of Smitty’s former assistant (quite
a secondary and dislikable figure anyway). However, I do hate siding with the
majority on anything (and books in particular!) so I will say that I have been
entertained by Capital, but was left
with little more than that.
That said, maybe, my impressions would have
been different had I read this book as we were house-hunting last year and
trying to understand the market value of the places we were looking at…
