Zero K - Don DeLillo

 

It might be that I've read way too many of DeLillo's books, or it might simply be that, having just had my second child, I am not quite ready for anything too deep, but Zero K didn't quite do it for me. 

I understand why plenty of critics found this to be a fine book, but I couldn't bring myself to love it. The scientific/futuristic dynamics are not particularly exciting for me (then again, he probably is miles ahead of everyone and foreseeing things like he did with Cosmopolis) and the bodies with severed cryogenically heads just remind me of Futurama...

Like all of DeLillo's books, I'm really glad I've read it. And, like most of his books since Underworld, it is a quick read (but not a light one by any means!).

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.

Falling Man - Don DeLillo

I wonder whether all of Don DeLillo's books get remaindered within 24 hours. Seriously, there's always at least two of his novels at Fopp. Not that I'm complaining though, as ultimately I tend to like most (if not all) of them. 

Falling Man is a typical DeLillo book, with typical troubled characters victims of traumatic events (in this case, 9/11) and struggling to live their lives as the parameters around them are shifting. 

What was good was the idea of the artist (the Falling Man of the title), the fictionalized accounts of the moment in which the planes hit the towers as seen from the inside, and the children looking up at the sky in search of the mysterious "Bill Lawton". 

What was possibly not so good was the bizarre link (through a suitcase) between the two survivors. 

And what was ultimately a bad sign for the book is that, despite having finished it only a couple of weeks ago, I have already forgotten most of it. 

Così Giocano le Bestie Giovani - Davide Longo

A book that I read while on holiday in Italy, and something that I used to break up the never-ending task of reading Paul Auster's "4321" - something that hopefully will end at some point this weekend.

As I said in my last post, Longo's prose remains unparalleled in contemporary Italian literature, and this dark detective story is extremely captivating. There are a couple of characters I could have lived without (the counsellor/psychiatrist/psychologist, and, erm, the dog), but other than that it remained a very enjoyable read.

Enjoyable because it's again about Turin, because it's about Italy's dark recent past, and because it made me love the character of Corso Bramard, something that his previous book hadn't managed to do.

A Single Man - Christopher Isherwood

Isherwood is probably, well surely, one of those authors I should have approached way earlier but didn't. Hey, at least I did watch the movie version of A Single Man when it came out and, despite the fact that some critics had their doubts, I found it absolutely masterful (even when some scenes looked like modelling ads).

That said, there were elements in the novel that pleasantly surprised me (first and foremost the fact that the protagonist doesn't have suicidal ideas) and easily made this one of the best books I've read this year. I don't quite know whether that's because of the location, because of the depth of the characters, because of Jim's constant subtle presence, or simply because it's beautifully written.

The Childhood of Jesus and the Schooldays of Jesus - J.M. Coetzee

Two hardcover books from the stock clearance section of the Barbican library bought for a grand total of 50p. That would be a good buy for any author, let alone someone of the calibre of Coetzee.

Both books follow the same story, and while I find certain aspects profoundly fascinating (and eerily current) I was ultimately bothered by the magic undertones of the two novels, particularly the second.

The idea of two migrants who reach the shore of an unknown country, unable to tell (or remember) anything of their previous escape, tied together despite not being father and son is an extremely compelling one. And yet the abstract discussions about letters, numbers and, ultimately, dance, are a bit too much for me to bear. In particular towards the end, where I so wouldn't have wanted to see Simon start to dance.

All the characters are full of mysteries and miseries (not just Simon and David, but everyone else too). I just wish someone was a bit plainer and a bit easier to understand...

Lanzarote - Michel Houellebecq

Ah, Houellebecq - sure, he's an arrogant ass who uses his real or supposed insecurities to spit venom on half of the world, but he writes so very well.

Lanzarote is the sort of book that you read during a single bus ride (or at least that's what I did, the one time I didn't run or cycle back from work this summer). Possibly because of its short size, it has way less nastiness than the other books by the same author that I've read so far. And for once, at least some of the groups that Houellebecq attacks are made up of people that I don't feel the desperate need to defend.

Add to that the fact that I believe Houellebecq picks the perfect location for this book, an almost lunar island that manages to attract hordes of tourists nonetheless, and you have a really good read for an hour or so. It won't take much longer than that, and it won't stay with you for much longer than that either, but it will allow you to overcome the boredom of being stuck on a bus in rush-hour traffic. 

A Pale View of Hills - Kazuo Ishiguro

A very battered copy of this book made its way to me from the Turin airport book-crossing shelves (via my mom). And maybe it could have stayed on those shelves and waited for someone able to better appreciate it.

I absolutely love Ishiguro when he writes about posh British people, or about a dystopian British future, but whenever he writes about Japan he somehow sounds trite to me (and in terms of how he "sounds", well, in interviews he just gives me the impression of being a British aristocrat).

An Artist of the Floating World had virtually the same effect on me - I just find Ishiguro's portraits of Japan quite unimaginative, despite liking his decision to tell the story from a woman's perspective, and despite wondering whether the narrator is telling her own story or that of "a friend".

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? - Philip K. Dick

Well, I thought I was going to like the book because of its absolutely amazing title and because, after all, it is the one that inspired Blade Runner (though the decision of the publisher of my edition to even change the title into Blade Runner is just offensive).

But I didn't enjoy it all. I can live with the dramatic differences in Rachael's character and there are plenty of interesting things that the movie does not touch upon (the importance of animals, for instance), but can i say that the book is just not particularly well-written? Do I sound like an obnoxious snob if I say that Dick's prose is underdeveloped?

Expectations were high - despite my lack of interest in sci-fi I was more than happy to give one of its greatest authors a try, but said expectations were not met. Not even remotely.