Nutshell - Ian McEwan

 

Oh, McEwan can write. And oh, as of late I've become increasingly fond of well-written adaptation of historical works (in this case, yet again, Hamlet). 

This is a book that I thoroughly enjoyed, also because of its setting in a London that is ultimately home for me. Perhaps not a full return to form (it's a novella after all, and the plot is quite clearly derivative) but this book did keep me thoroughly entertained for a weekend. 

The ending is somewhat predictable, with a deus ex machina that has been there all along (or at least for 40 weeks or so), but that doesn't take away from the overall pleasure of the read. 

Under the Volcano - Malcolm Lowry

 

One of those books that I read because I felt I had to. 

Also, one of those books that with hindsight I don't know if I really had to read. 

Dysfunctional couples, self-destructive machos, impotent lovers and rivers of alcohol in exotic settings. Hemingway also had them all. And Hemingway also had me when I was a teenager. I'm now much older, and feel like I have no time for this (despite the fact that, speaking of time, a lot of mine went into reading Under the Volcano). 

Love in the Time of Cholera - Gabriel García Márquez

 

I spent years telling myself that I had outgrown Márquez and magical realism. Perhaps though I had only outgrown the latter and not the former. 

Love in the Time of Cholera was a truly surprisingly pleasant read, most likely because love (as a concept) is eternal and love stories are relatable. Love triangles are intriguing. And getting old is something that happens to everyone (and I love to describe myself as middle-age despite the fact that I haven't yet turned 40). 

While some of the sappiest passages left me suitably untouched, I find it undeniable that a book essentially solely about people's relationships has got a timelessness to it that can make it appealing to a very wide audience. 

The Long Goodbye - Raymond Chandler

 

I loved the movie. I also saw it so long ago that I had completely forgotten about its plot, other than the final scene with Elliot Gould shooting his former friend (and quite clearly the major point of divergence between the novel and the movie). 

As often happens with (good) noir books, I really enjoyed it. And this time I didn't feel guilty about it in the slightest - it had been years since I had read anything by Chandler (or Hammett, or anyone of those writers) and it was long overdue. 

Obviously Marlowe is still a bit too smug, and the first-person narrative gets a bit on my nerves as I don't think I'd be able to recall every single verbal exchange I had in the past like he does. But then again, I'm not a private investigator (or an author for that matter!). Still, despite any potential qualm about the genre in general, for me Chandler remains one of the great storytellers of the 20th century.