The Plot Against America - Philip Roth

Another book that my mom insisted I read for a long, long time. And this time around one that I was keen to read (both Jewish and suburban, yay!) but I just didn't get around to buying it for a long time...

Besides liking it for the obvious reasons (Roth's writing, the story of the Jewish people of Newark, etc.) it's one of those fictional accounts that actually made me learn things about history. While I'm acutely aware of the fact that Lindberg was never the president of the US, there were plenty of things I didn't know about him, or Henry Ford, for instance.

Obviously the book is relevant and current, but I feel like I would have enjoyed this thoroughly regardless of the historical period we live in. And why Roth never won the Nobel prize is beyond me, though getting a Pulitzer is not exactly easy (or shabby)...

Down and Out in Paris and London - George Orwell

And to think that there was a time when I thought very little of Orwell. That was because I had only read Animal Farm (and didn't exactly love it) and heard an old member of the International Brigades fighting in the Spanish Civil War label him a "fucking tourist" when asked about Orwell's contribution to the war (an absolutely priceless moment!).

Much like everyone, I'm not quite sure how much of what Orwell tells in this fictional work of non-fiction actually happened or not, but it surely is thought-provoking and compelling. It is also probably one of those books that won't leave a permanent mark on me, but one whose overall sense will remain memorable.

And I don't know why, but I have the feeling it will remain on my shelf for longer than the very similar The Road by Jack London will (disclaimer: I did like The Road, but it's now with a pile of other books parked in my wardrobe as they are looking for a new home - with the second child coming around I'm now more determined than ever to have books only on my IKEA Billy and nowhere else in the flat!)



London Fields - Martin Amis

Another of those books that remained on my bookshelf for century because of their intimidating size. And another that I thoroughly enjoyed in the end.

I have to say I was actually kind of happy to find out that London Fields was not actually set in London Fields, as I struggle a fair bit with how fashionable the "hipsterland" between North and East London is.

The premise of the novel (a narrator, a murderer, a murderee and a foil) is genial, at least in my humble opinion. The prose is virtually flawless, and some passages might be among the best in recent British literature.

Sure, Nicola Six is an improbable character (to say the least!), and I could have done without the dystopian elements (not quite sure whether they really need to be there, to be honest), but London Fields remains a great book.



Goodbye to Berlin - Christopher Isherwood

A book that I bought because I still had money to spend from this year's book allowance, and one that I bought only because I had just finished reading A Single Man and loved it.


As I read the first few pages I thought that it was reminding me so much of the movie Cabaret. Clearly the version I read didn't quite have the book cover above otherwise even I would have been able to understand the connection between the two a bit sooner!

Yet, for much that I liked the book (and I really did!), a couple of months have passed and now I can only remember vague passages and sensations, but the actual plot escapes me. And that is either a sign of early-onset dementia (a possibility), a demonstration of how many things I have going on at the moment (more likely, given also that we are expecting a second child in little more than a month by the way!), or it's possibly that the entertainment value of this book doesn't match its literary one.


The Tenth Man - Graham Greene



With the usual thanks to Surrey Docks farm for this solid 50p investment. I bought it thinking it was a joking take on The Third Man, and had it not been for the fact that it wasn't exactly expensive I wouldn't have bought it after reading about its troubled publication history (I mean, the author himself had forgotten about writing it in the first place!).



And I honestly wonder how Graham Greene could have ever forgotten about it. Not remembering bits and pieces, sure, but forgetting about the genius idea (or at least what I think is a genius idea!) of a man buying his way out of an execution and persuading someone else to take his place appears to me to be impossible.

The novel has such a wonderfully French feel, probably a reflection of Greene's unique ability to write books about pretty much any country and making it feel authentic. Much like the reader feels the dilemmas of the main character are authentic, despite the fact that he finds himself in a most unique position.

The Pearl - John Streinbeck

I would probably buy anything written by Steinbeck, and read it quickly, and love it. In the case of The Pearl I bought it, read it quickly, and just didn't love it. Sad, but at least it proves I don't completely lose my objectivity when reading.

It is obviously well-written (it's Steinbeck, duh!), but all the poetry of the plot is lost on me. To me it stands to Steinbeck's other works much like The Old Man and the Sea does to Hemingway's: it's a book that is obviously bound to be popular, but one whose story is rather predictable and, in my opinion, not really engaging.

Or maybe I'm just old and bitter.



London Belongs to Me - Norman Collins

One of the last few novels that I had bought with my job's "book allowance" two years ago. And one that had remained on my bedside table for a long, long time because of its scary size. And yet a novel that, once started, I was able to read in a few days as the prose flows so effortlessly, and the South London setting makes the plot immediately interesting for me.

London Belongs to Me is a wonderfully ordinary story. It tells of the various families inhabiting a house and their daily challenges. It tells, ultimately, of London. There is (British) humour aplenty, there is drama and there is love.

Who knows, maybe if it had been published in 2017 I would have simply written it off as banal, but the WWII aura around London always goes a long way with me, just as it did when I read The End of the Affair.