Ian McEwan’s latest novel Solar reminded me a lot of Richler’s Barney’s Version: a crotchety old man who eats too much, cheats on his wives, cheats his way through his professional life, is exceptionally self-deluding, dirty and grumpy. I loved Barney, I wanted him to figure things out, to be okay (thus the brilliance of the novel). I didn’t care one way or another whether Michael Beard had things work out for him in the end, and in the end he really did have a hell of a lot to be worried about: marriage, job, career, health, all falling apart and all I could wonder was when the book would stop making fat people out to be lazy slobs. When the ending did arrive it arrived unexpectedly – and not in the ha ha! surprise great twisty ending – but a reaction where I wondered whether the catastrophes facing Beard were too great to imagine any other way out then to kill him off. Not a poetic or justified or symbolic death, just a panicked, how to resolve the narrative death. Suffice it to say, disappointing. I admire the occasionally very funny moments of the text and the recognition of the ways in which politics and the press shape as much of science as the actual researchers do. Too bad the narrator was so unsurprising and un-affecting. And the terrible ending, let’s not forget that.
Category Archives: Book I’ll Forget I Read
Sanctuary Line: Symbolism Gone Wild
Im writing about Jane Urquhart’s A Map of Glass for the big T right now, and so I should begin this post with the caveat that my interpretation of Sanctuary Line may be skewed by my frustration with writing about A Map of Glass. That said, even though I am writing endless pages about it, I like A Map of Glass. I do not, however, like Sanctuary Line.
The top lists of 2010 like Sanctuary Line. They like it, I suspect, because it comes heavily laden with symbolism and with the promise that this. is. literary. fiction. Unfortunately the endless symbols of butterflies, transformation, lighthouses, reading, vigilance, connection, and a vital past do not accompany anything like an engaging plot. Instead the reader encounters chapter after chapter of a frustrating (not tantalizing) promise that soon – no! soon! – the “mystery” that explains the disappearance of Liz’s uncle and the tragedy of Liz’s childhood will be revealed. This reader suspected, nay expected, that somehow the over-determined symbolism that weighed down the narrative would, in the final reveal, make sense, would make the plot richer and the experience of slogging through worthwhile. Alas. The big mystery appeared to this reader so surprising, so unexpected that I couldn’t help but wonder if in all my attention to symbolism I had somehow missed the connection between transformation and… (the big reveal).
I have to say I generally admire Urquhart for her poetic descriptions of landscape, her weaving of symbol, plot, metaphor and character, and her ambition in thematic scope. This novel, however, left me feeling frustrated and vaguely discomfited: have I become a poorer reader? Let’s not discount this possibility, it’s been a long semester. But let’s also consider the possibility that this book may have missed the mark, and instead of weaving a delightful tapestry of character, plot, theme and symbol we’re left with a knotted ball of (enter the misplaced metaphor).
Family Album: Where every character is fixed
Penelope Lively’s novel Family Album leaves as much mystery about its characters as this portrait. The family of the titular album is comprised of six children and three parents. The “shocking” reveal of the novel is that the au pair (whose name escapes me, such is her impression on this reader) mothers the final family child (Clare) with the patriarch and that the mother, zealously committed tothe importance of family, insists on raising Clare as her own. This reveal is not shocking. Any contemporary reader with a passing experience of family life will be attuned to the levels of secrecy operating in any given family. That the family members never speak about Clare’s parentage (until the last few pages) is also meant to be something of a shock, and again, I found this unsurprising. What family speaks openly about secrets? Is that not the nature of secrets to begin with?
If you are willing to put aside the scant basis for plot and turn only to character, you will be sadly disappointed. The characters each receive small chapters of third person limited narration, with slightly greater attention paid to the mother and the eldest daughter, Gina. Despite this narrative focus, none of the characters feel complex (at all), and so I found myself caring very little (or at all) about how they felt about anything – let alone how they were impacted by the dastardly father and the “deep dark” family secret. Indeed the characters felt as still and fixed as any portrait in an album.
Filed under Book I'll Forget I Read, Fiction
The Tiger Claw: Not Memorable
—> I liked this tiger picture because he looks puffed up and self-important, which is often how I feel while I’m writing posts. <—
It’s been two weeks since I finished The Tiger Claw and I sat down to update and couldn’t at all remember what I had read since Galveston, which can’t be a good sign (whether of my memory or of the texts, I can’t be sure).
I took The Tiger Claw on a week’s holiday with my family, which always means ample time to read. Even with all kinds of opportunity, I struggled to motivate myself to keep reading. I suppose there’s only one way to put it: The Tiger Claw was boring. And it has no right to be! It’s set during World War Two (always a scintillating period) and features Noor Khan – an Indian-British-French resistance fighter. There should be intrigue! action! fast-paced… anything! Alas, even with occasional moments of action the heavy-handed imagery and aspiring-epic scenery descriptions makes it feels like nothing happens for four hundred pages. I do admit I found the last hundred or so to be engaging, but really, not enough of a payoff to make up for the sluggish first 4/5ths.
I’m glad I’ve written this, as maybe it will mean I’ll remember having read this book. Maybe.
Filed under Book I'll Forget I Read, Fiction
