What We Can Know - Ian McEwan

 

I feel like I should write about this book, which I've read more than a year ago, as my parents appear to misremember my impressions (they seem to think that I liked it a lot, when in reality my reaction was more muted) and my colleagues are now passing it among themselves. 

While the book does have a number of interesting takes (chief among all a dystopian future that feels rather realistic, in which humans have learned to adapt to changes and a number of technological developments of the late 20th/early 21st century have disappeared) it essentially deals with something (the construction and reconstruction of (hi)stories) that I unfortunately already have to deal with on a dialy basis as part of my job. 

So, while on the one hand I can see this being a very compelling read for many, for me it's just not quite interesting or novel enough. I know for a fact that, as a historian, most of my guesses about the past are wrong. I don't need McEwan to reiterate that for me. 

Hamnet - Maggie O'Farrell

 

Raise your hand up if you've heard of this book, or watched the movie. Yup, I thought so...

For me the pros are that Hamnet will have something for everyone - the Shakespeare lovers, those interested in family relations, those who want to explore how people elaborate loss, and those who want to be transported to the past qutie effortlessly (O' Farrell is a really remarkable writer). It will also appeal to those who like to smugly say "Nope, that's not a true account of the creation of Hamlet" (as if that was ever the point). 

Yet, for me the book does have one huge con: I couldn't help but feel that it exploited the suffering and grieving of a family, and I'm not quite sure how (or if) that could be addressed - after all, it's most likely better to talk about this kind of loss (even if it is in part to sell copies of a book) than not talk about it at all. 

Waiting for the Barbarians - J. M. Coetzee

 

One of the many books I picked up from a table on Rotherhithe Street a year or so ago. And like pretty much all of Coetzee's books I've read (minus perhaps the Jesus series) a really interesting read. 

Still, for much that it explored the futility of war and orders coming from above that are completely out of touch with reality, our lack of empathy and our inability to understand (and fight) a hypothetical enemy, I struggled to see this as an equal to the book it is quite openly inspired by (Buzzati's Il Deserto dei Tartari). 

The Confidential Agent - Graham Greene

 

A book that I found, alongside many that I'm currently reading, on Olio, the (mostly) food-sharing app. A local guy was trying to donate the books of his step-father, and I grabbed a few, though I wish the limit wasn't just 10 at a time as I would have most likely taken the whole lot!

The decision to pick this one up was partly determined by my passion for Greene, partly by the fact that I loved the old Penguin edition, partly by the assumption that it would have a kind of Third Man feeling. And I was unsurprisingly correct about the last assumption. 

The Confidential Agent is beautiful yet heartbreaking (regardless of whether you know the history of the Spanish Civil War or not, or even whether you associate this book with that particular conflict and not another unnamed one, you know from the start that the protagonist's cause is ultimately hopeless). Still, it is both compelling and, for want of a better term, inspirational to see someone fight for a lost - if morally irreprehebsible - cause. 

The environment the characters move in also reminded me of Simenon, though the one thing I could have done without (as I felt it was a move aimed at a movie adaptation, as the book ended up having) was the romantic love story on the fringes. 

Two Besides - Alan Bennett

 

One always needs a bit of Alan Bennett in life. And there is nothing more useful (and simultaneously easy to read while remaining meaningful) than his talking heads. 

I read this book a few months ago, and unsurprisingly I have forgotten about the plot of the two monologues, but I do remember the feelings: looking at people in their daily lives, reading about the objectionable things they do, seeing how they justify and absolve themselves, and then wondering whether I should cast some sort of judgement on them or not. 

Oddly enough, what I do remember best is the preface written by one of Bennett's longest serving collaborators (Nicholas Hytner). That was one of the most beautiful accounts of the impact of COVID-19 and how some people in the entertainment industry did their utmost best to keep on doing their jobs, in one way or another, in the face of unprecedented adversity. 

Yellow Dog - Martin Amis

 

Wow. Just wow. Not a good wow. A bad wow. This book is definitely a worthy candidate for worst book I've ever read. 

It was bought for 50p at the local farm years ago, but we definitely overpaid for it. 

It's disjointed, deeply unfunny, seriously self-absorbed and simply, quite frankly, uninteresting. Perhaps Amis was trying to be clever and put together a bunch of odd bits that he had flying around his office, or maybe he thought that his fame would allow him to publish anything, but wow (again) this book was bad. 

In the Beauty of the Lilies - John Updike

 

One of those books that had been sitting of a shelf in LSE's Shaw Library (a place where nobody goes except for taking a nap, clearly) untouched for a good 20 years until I decided to grab it. 

Having only read a couple of books by Updike, but having really enjoyed them both, I didn't hesitate to borrow this one once I saw it (also because I do love epic family histories). 

All the four sections as masterfully written (you don't say...), but not all of them are easy to approach. The initial one, frankly, was a bit of a slog. While the topic was really interesting (the loss of faith, and subsequent loss of income, of a reverend) I was finding myself lost in the depth of the theological discussions that were being presented. The second section then picked up considerably, with the story of a man who just wanted to live a serene life, followed by a third that kept my attention because of the many Hollywood references and a fourth one that felt so contemporary it could have actually been written by Jonathan Franzen. All in all, a great book that made me think also of Paul Auster's 4 3 2 1 and John Williams's Stoner

Nutshell - Ian McEwan

 

Oh, McEwan can write. And oh, as of late I've become increasingly fond of well-written adaptations 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-aged 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 any 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.

Riparare i Torti - Pino Cacucci

 

I hadn't read a book by Cacucci in ages. And it's lovely to see that he's still mildly obsessed with Mexico, and that he remains an excellent storyteller. 

As usual, he tells a (fictional) story of forgotten characters based on real events: the Italian sailors left stranded and uncertain in Mexico as a result of their country's entry into WWII. The story is compelling, and while most of the characters and rather dogmatically sketched (there is often little room for nuances) I found it quite easy to grow fond of a lot of them. 

Through the life of the "proper Fascist" whose identity gets stolen Cacucci shows some very justifiable sympathy for those poor idiots who were taken (or allowed themselves to be taken) for a ride by a regime based on hollow promises and misconceptions. Yet, I wish he wouldn't err so much towards the conspirational at times, because he has enough factual history on his hands to make for a really good novel without resorting to too many mysteries and subterfuges. 

Creation Lake - Rachel Kushner

 

Underwhelming. Well-written, obviously, but underwhelming. 

This is a fairly customary Kushner plot - with one woman very much going her own way regardless of the reader's (and society's) expectations. I don't think I've ever had a problem with her main characters being, in one way or another, dislikeable. But in this case Sadie (let's call her that, even if we are reminded time and again that it's not her real name) is not just dislikeable, she's uninteresting. 

Her occasional bouts of self-criticism are too cynical to feel like anything more than just a literary trope, her personalities are so many and so different that it ultimately looks like she doesn't have one at all, and the ending (with her Catalan buen ritiro) is actually pathetically trite (much like her realization that those "stars" that move are actually satellites and the potential for intrusion by powerful entities virtually limitless). 

The Fathers - John Niven

 

A book that I picked up by chance, and chiefly because I felt that it could provide some light entertainment and occasional insight. 

And that it did. With the obvious clash of cultures and classes that its cover promised, but done with a gracious touch that reminded me of John Lanchester. 

Nothing in the book is excessively surprising. Things seem to take a turn for the worse, then everything works out for pretty much everyone. Yet, there are enough moments - funny, dramatic (this book did nothing to placate my fear of children and grapes), insightful - to make it a compelling read. And Niven does a really good job of highlighting what I think is one of the most overlooked issues for "my" people: middle and upper-middle class people don't have children, or have them very late in life. 

Stoner - John Williams

 

A book that I read this Christmas during a solo trip to see my parents. And what a pleasant read it was!

Perhaps the beauty of campus novels is that (when they are good?) they age remarkably well. Or perhaps it's just that, having been on a campus for the last 20 years, I feel particularly drawn to these kind of stories. 

Stoner though has a significant added value: its main character is one of those figures who seem to be particularly dear to (some) students despite not having the infinite list of credentials of senior academics. And, go figure, I rather relate to that!

Though one thing I can't quite relate to is Stoner's (at times dreadful, at times simply improbable) family life, or his rivalries at work (perhaps I'm too unimportant at my university to even be on anyone's radar!).