White Tears – Hari Kunzru

A random advanced proof copy that my mom managed to find at the Blackheath Amnesty International book sale. Go mum!

Long chunks of this Kunzru novel seemed to be written by, erm, Paul Auster. Seriously, the feeling of alienation was very much the same. Despite the mixed reviews it seems to be receiving, I quite enjoyed White Tears, probably because it deals with white kids who try to adopt black culture with, in their own way, profound respect and self-criticism.

But in all honesty the gory end is just a bit much, and I could have done without the Charlie Shaw takeover – just a bit too (dark) magical for me…

Song of Solomon – Toni Morrison

Not quite sure why I read Beloved before reading Song of Solomon. Well, not true. I read Beloved first because somebody left it in by building’s reception while I actually had to buy Song of Solomon…

I do realize that what I’m about to write is ground-breaking and has never been thought (let alone said) before, but Song of Solomon is an absolutely outstanding book. Sure, looking for material wealth and finding one’s true roots instead is the oldest literary topos, but this novel explores it so very well.

And, much like in all (very good) epic family stories, the anecdotes that are passed down from generation to generation are truly wonderful. And, much like in all (very good) epic family stories, wisdom is dispensed by old characters who have understood everything in life (here Pilate reminds me in part of Marquez’s Pilar Tenera and in part of Richler’s Ephraim Gursky).

And when Milkman thinks of his people and includes Jelly Roll, Bo Diddley, Fats and B.B. it’s very much like in Good Morning Babylon the two brothers tell some Hollywood types that they are the sons of the sons of the sons of Michelangelo and Leonardo (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ISEw_yf8-o apologies, the audio is only in Italian). 

Gods Without Men – Hari Kunzru

The great thing about young writers is that you can be all smug and unreasonably proud for reading their complete works, or at least all their fiction books (as it’s the case for me and Kunrzu). Let’s just ignore the fact that at the end of the day Kunzru has only written four novels so far.

To me, nothing will ever equal the impact and the depth of My Revolutions, but Gods Without Men was a lot more enjoyable than The Impressionist (I liked it pretty much as much as I liked Transmissions, with the sentimental sections in this case replaced by wacky but entertaining mystic ones). The book has been compared to works by David Mitchell and Kurt Vonnegut, but I actually saw quite a lot of Philip Roth (American Pastoral) and Don DeLillo (White Noise).

As usual, Kunzru writes beautifully, and succeeds in making the story of Jaz and Lisa gripping and touching (In particular when he describes their lives in the public eye). However, I have the feeling that some of the characters are slightly too stereotyped (in particular the nerdy Jaz and the British Nicky, who just uses a few British idioms too many to be fully credible). 

The mysteries of the afterlife don’t interest me. Kunzru’s recounting of them, however, does. 

On the Road – Jack Kerouack

"Sal, we gotta go and never stop going till we get there."
"Where we going, man?"
"I don't know but we gotta go."

I had this quote written on a post-it note and placed on my wardrobe in Italy ever since I was a teenager. It took me a dozen years, and countless hopeless tries that usually stopped at around page 14, before I was actually able (mature?) to read the book.

Much to my surprise, by the time I was 27 I was actually able to read On the Road and, even more surprisingly, I didn’t find it dated at all. The story is made even more interesting by the fact that so many of its characters are actually disguised real-life artists (including Burroughs – and the fact that I really didn’t like Naked Lunch doesn’t mean I didn’t find his life fascinating).

Some of Sal’s trips are more exciting than others, but I had the feeling that, ever since crossing into Mexico for the first time in the fourth part, the quality of the books rises to new heights. And the final scene is a coming-of-age and end-of-an-era realization of epic proportions.

Timbuktu – Paul Auster

I bought this book as a Christmas gift for my dad in something like 2002, or maybe 2003. Since then I read quite a few of Auster’s books, but overlooked the story of this dog, Mr Bones, for a good dozen years.

It was probably the easiest book by Paul Auster that I’ve ever read. Without analysing it too much, the book doesn’t seem to have the countless layers and literary depth that many (all?) of his other books have. This was just a nice book – with all the pros and cons that this entails.

Mr Bones’ various owners all love him, as indeed does the reader. You clearly wish it (he?) could reach Timbuktu quickly to meet again with his very first owner, but it takes time – luckily the dog is quite good at playing a game in which “the moment you lost, you won”.