Killing Commendatore - Haruki Murakami

 

I'm not about to become a Murakami fan. Not even close. But with a dwindling supply of readable books from the Southwark e-library I found myself picking this 700-page novel that at times seems to struggle to find its own purpose. 

Yet, for a good 500 pages, I found this to be my favourite Murakami book so far (which, admittedly, is not saying much). Then it really jumped the shark, or - literally - it went down a delirious imaginary (rabbit?) hole for 150 pages before a couple of final chapters that try to provide a semi-coherent end to this story. 

Not really a great read, but to be completely frank my expectations were so low that for large sections it managed to exceed them. 

Lincoln in the Bardo - George Saunders

  

The good-old-times, when neighbours left good - or at the very least readable - books in our building's lobby. 

I picked up Lincoln in the Bardo because, well, it had recently won the Man Booker Prize at the time. I was also curious to see what linked Lincoln and one of the world's most known museums. I then found out it wasn't that kind of Bardo...

I was absolutely blown away by the depiction of President Lincoln, his grief and humanity in the days of his son's death. Way, way less so by the long sections dealing with young Lincoln's life (actually, can you really call it "life"?!?) in the Bardo - mystic fantasy is really not quite my genre.

Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman

Oh, how I would have liked to love this book – but fantasy is just not for me.

No matter how charming the Marquis is.

No matter how deep the allegories on the world of homelessness are.

No matter how much I love reading about London (above or below).

I still can’t like fantasy books. No matter how good Gaiman is in his own field.  

Gulliver’s Travels – Jonathan Swift

Having almost run out of books at home, I am now going back to the 18^th century.  And it’s actually better than I expected. Gulliver’s Travels surprised me by not just being about Lilliput (but then again, that’s solely due to my ignorance), by being written in a remarkably understandable English, and crucially by not being boring.

Not all travels are as interesting – the third one in particular gets to be fairly dull after a while, at least for me – and some of Swift’s comments just make you cringe (the depiction of women being one, but also the continuous praise of Britain and its empire).

But the irony and criticism are still fairly current, although one thing that I found really curious is that for all the things that Swift imagined, he never seemed to envisage a different political system other than a monarchy (at least for humans).

Gulliver’s Travels was a surprisingly pleasant read, but that’s probably also because at the end of it all he comes back to “his” (and also “my”) Rotherhithe. 

The Master and Margarita – Mikhail Bulgakov

The unfortunately high expectations that I had from this book probably ruined it for me. I though my mind was going to be blown away by Bulgakov’s masterpiece, instead I was left extremely disappointed. I remember a school re-enactment of the first chapter of the novel, with the mysterious Iraqi kid playing a great Woland, but as it turns out that was, for me, by far the most interesting chapter in the entire novel. My father loved the book, but maybe it was a generational thing.

As I mentioned before, I already have issues with magical realism, but works of fantasy are just too much for me. After a couple of hundred pages the book just got boring for me. The intentions of the devilish characters are generally quite foreseeable from the start, so just get on with it. And I was hoping for at least something more satanic (and not just plain decadent) for the ball.

After a while even Behemoth, the most entertaining of Woland’s gang, becomes boring and repetitive. And the sections on the Master’s book seem just like a long, bleak return to Sunday school.