by ELG Gray

The Sense of an Ending

I’m back! After a ridiculously long hiatus (during which time I could only bring myself to read books with either a) happy endings or b) containing at Least One Of dragons, wizards, or gnomes), here we go again.

So I started with Julian Barnes’ The Sense of an Ending; short and sweet. It was a superb re-introduction to the world of Serious Literature. (Not that I’m knocking the fab genres that have filled my last 18 months. Fantasy books, I love you.) I haven’t read Barnes before, and, in spite of an ending which I have a strong sense of leaving me unfulfilled, I really enjoyed my first foray into his work.

The Sense of an Ending is a personal history – the memoirs of Tony Webster, focusing on the events of his adolescence and young adulthood. It confronts suicide, sex, depression, history, mental health, and a host of other huge issues in a hyper personal, extremely specific way. In a way that is almost light hearted … only it isn’t, quite.

One of the most fascinating things about the book is the sense of perspective Tony, our protagonist and narrator, gives us. I like him. I want to believe him. But he proves that his own memory (and indeed his own interpretation of his memory) is suspect. Sometimes he owns up to that – other times less so. So what do we believe? Is there an answer?

As the title suggests, this book is really all about the Ending. Essentially the critical pieces of the puzzle are only unveiled in the final two pages. At which point it is far too late to ask more questions of Tony, or really to figure out what, exactly, happened. In many such books I end up Angry – WHY would the author do this to me!? What a friggin’ cop out! But somehow, with Barnes, I got the sense (pardon) that he Knew what he was doing. And that there IS an answer, if only I was smart enough to unpick it. The book meanders so much and yet is so concise, I really can’t fault it. It’s a splendid contradiction.

So I ask of you – please go read this book. And please tell me what you think of the ending. I would love to figure it out.

01.02.15

by ELG Gray

American Pastoral

Page turner: 6/10
Heart tugger: 7/10
Thought provoker: 9/10
Overall: 4 stars

You know the expression, ‘so good it hurts’? Well, Philip Roth’s American Pastoral is sort-of the inverse of that. It hurts so much … it’s good. The story is so gut-wrenching. So over-the-top human, you get sucked in and hurt along with the main character’s hurt. It definitely isn’t a happy book, but it is compelling and thought provoking.

In American Pastoral, the narrator is Nathan Zuckerman, a Jewish man living in the 1990s (now in his 60s) recounting not only his own life, but the life of his childhood local hero – Seymour ‘Swede’ Levov. Needless to say, the Swede’s charmed existence of being the realisation of the American Dream in the heavily Jewish New Jersey of the mid-century doesn’t last him through his entire life, though it takes Nathan some digging to uncover what happened. Precisely what *does* happen, and how the Swede himself feels about it is never entirely clear, but Roth does a phenomenal job of showing us our options for interpretation, and getting me to ponder imponderable questions about social upheaval and personal trauma.

The focus of the work (there are lots of intricacies, and don’t want to over-indulge details) is Nathan uncovering the fact that in the 60s/70s the Swede’s daughter is somehow involved in a local Vietnam war protest which involves blowing up a pharmacy. It kills an innocent pharmacist. How can a ‘together’, charming, good-looking man have produced such a child? Who is this teenage horror? Are her beliefs justified? Did she do it, anyway? And how does this effect his relationship with his own parents, brother, and wife?

As we read more and more about the back-story and the ‘present’ day (the book does a lot of flashing back, reconstructing, and surmising) it becomes teeth-suckingly painful. I wanted to read more, but had to pace myself simply because of the intensity.

Like Roth’s other book I’ve reviewed, Portnoy’s Complaint, the title character certainly has the tendency to ramble and rant, but here it is more targeted, more focused. And I developed a real sense of empathy for a few of the main characters which I lacked in Portnoy. To be honest, I didn’t at all expect the drama/trauma of what I subsequently experienced in reading American Pastoral, but it was well worth it. A definite must-read.

08.18.14

by ELG Gray

The Magnificent Ambersons

Page turner: 5/10
Heart tugger: 7/10
Thought provoker: 6/10
Overall: 3 stars

After a rather prolonged hiatus, I am pleased to return with a full report of Booth Tarkington’s The Magnificent Ambersons. Which I liked. I found it a bit unoriginal, but that may be the result of a century of hindsight. Still, I liked it.

The Magnificent Ambersons is the second book in Tarkington’s ‘growth’ trilogy. Try as I might I could not get my hands on a copy of the third and final book in the series, I couldn’t find it. Which is both a testament to me liking the second book, and perhaps a reflection on the second also being the ‘best’ of the three. Anyway, the ‘growth’ that the title refers to is the changing dynamic of the American mid west … and how settlements grew to towns and cities as the turn of the twentieth century saw the huge boom in urban populations.

The Ambersons were the relative nobility of the small Midwestern town as it was originally settled. They owned vast swathes of land, the great house, and had the most beautiful and elaborate items brought over from the East. Georgie Amberson is the protagonist of the novel, and is the grandson of the founding father who amassed the fortune. And Georgie is a spoiled brat of the most spoiled type. His really only redeeming feature as a child is that he uses the term ‘riff raff’ which always made me chuckle. The story (predictably, to modern eyes) progresses as the town grows, the Ambersons’ wealth diminishes and new money comes to take their place. It is the story of the transition of a town to a city, and the way that young Georgie is forced to reconcile with changing circumstances. Tarkington does a good job of succinctly and believably narrating both parallels in the story. I won’t say whether or not Georgie shows himself of being of strong moral fiber in the end.

The trouble is – I feel I have read it all before. Perhaps it was one of the first of its kind to talk about that boom in Midwestern America, but it is awfully reminiscent of stories of the Industrial Revolution and the rise of New Money vs. aristocracy in Europe as well as on the East Coast of the U.S. Published in 1918 was The Magnificent Amberson’s a trailblazer? Or a very good example of this ‘genre’ of story? I don’t think my literary history is good enough to know the answer, but I do wonder. This shortcoming, however, is what made it a three for me, and not a higher rating.

Still, Tarkington’s book is a slim read, and definitely fulfilling. It’s about growth – both physical and personal, and as such is quite rewarding to follow along with!

06.08.14

by ELG Gray

The Orphan Master’s Son

Pager turner: 7/10
Heart tugger: 7/10
Thought-provoker: 9/10
Overall: 4 stars

The Orphan Master’s Son is about North Korea. And it is brilliant.

What is so powerful about it is that it brings to mind other dystopian novels like Brave New World and 1984, only The Orphan Master’s Son is (essentially) real. Or based in a real place, where unspeakable things happen. Perhaps I should caveat that to say that of course unspeakable things happen everywhere in the world, but the particular ones that Adam Johnson narrates in TOMS were beyond anything that my little Western mind had ever even considered within the bounds of modern reality. Shows what I know.

The book is in two parts – the first tells the story of the protagonist Pak Jun Do’s young-young adult life and the second is the story of Commander Ga. It is difficult to explain how the two relate without giving the essential narrative ploy of the book away (have you seen ‘The Sixth Sense’?) but Johnson’s story-telling technique in breaking up the book this way is elegant, simple and very effective.

Pak Jun Do grew up in an orphanage, and being an orphan is apparently the worst thing to be in North Korea. Though never overtly explained, the implication is that if you have no parents to protect you, you are at the whim of the State to make use of you as it sees fit. So the first half of the book is really a series of horrible, entertaining, mind-boggling misadventures. Tunnelling, pain training, starvation, kidnapping, sailing, shark attacks and (of course) American Sneak Attacks! are all present. It starts a bit slowly but, given all that action, it is safe to say that it builds and becomes engrossing.

The best way to summarise the second half of the book is to say that Commader Ga’s world is a world-turned-upside-down. Imagine putting your whole reality under a microscope and questioning every-single-tiny assumption. It’s like that. It’s scary (but not hide in the corner scary – it’s blow-your-mind scary).

Throughout the book Johnson tells the story of the Orphan Master’s Son through a few different voices, including that of the omnipresent loudspeakers blasting ‘news’ to North Korean citizens. The technique works to force you to consider the different perspectives in the book, but there are a few chapters/characters that I think have more limited success simply when juxtaposed with the Greatness of the others. Similarly, I couldn’t wait to find out what happens and to explore the other-worldliness of North Korea, but the book is 575 pages long. I noticed.

For such an undertaking, I can totally see why Johnson won the 2013 Pulitzer for The Orphan Master’s Son. It’s astonishing – both in the setting/story and the way he manages to tell it. I heartily recommend.

01.12.14

by ELG Gray

A Passage to India

Page-turner: 7/10
Heart-tugger: 7/10
Thought-provoker: 8/10
Overall: 4 stars

Reading A Passage to India has been a bit like watching the tide come in, on a dark summer night. There is an inevitable slowness to it that builds strongly and beautifully but never (can’t) break out of its own rhythms. And at the end I feel quite washed away by it.

I am speaking in metaphors, but can’t quite stop myself as I only put the book down a few minutes ago. It is a beautiful and powerful book. Just not a ‘loud’ or ‘obvious’ one. The plot is very, very simple; the book is interesting purely because of its characters. They are developed to be thoroughly and completely human. They are flawed, irrational, thoughtful and mean but compassionate and totally a product of their own cultures. Discourse – between Indians and Ango-Englishmen, Indians and Indians, or Englishmen with the Anglo-English – always contains subtext, emotion, and misunderstanding. It’s incredibly frustrating. But all the more ‘real’ for it. I Believe in the book.

First published in 1924, A Passage to India is ranked 25th on the Modern Library’s top 100 books of the 20th Century. And, I agree it should be on that list (though don’t feel particularly entitled to put it in a ranked order). It takes place at about the time it was published in Imperial India. And the book is the story – a study – in how the ruling race and the indigenous one manage to cohabitate a continent in a way that neither fully understands. There is some talk of love, though it isn’t a love story, and politics though it is by no means a polemic. It’s just a story about people – prejudices – and how they clash.

The subtly with which Forster develops the main characters is stunning : aptly named Miss Quested whose own quest causes disaster for all around her, school master Mr Fielding, and ‘Oriental’ Dr Aziz. Forster’s Oriental imbues an Otherness that would likely irk a modern anthropologist, but I think it is more of a trope than a truism. He makes Aziz’s preference towards the emotional and dramatic to be a product of a different human culture, rather than innately irrational and primitive.

It is fair to say that not a huge amount Happens in the book, but that doesn’t really matter. And coming from someone who generally believes that a good book is just a very good story – that’s pretty impressive. Its beauty and slowness and repetition is engrossing. The heat is languid. You just can’t expect that much to happen when it is so hot. And even when it does, there is a distance to it that makes the book have something of a surreal quality. The chant of ‘Esmiss Esmoor’ is still echoing in my brain. I won’t spoil why that’s important, but I will say that the character it refers to clearly my hero of the book. The one who understands it all the best. And it is nice for an old woman to be ‘right’ and pseudo-heroic where others are silly and small and wrong.

Certainly read this book. It isn’t a Wow book, but it is a deep one. I am impressed by it. It also made an impression on me. I also (bizarrely) think reading this first might have made me a bit more compassionate towards some of the characters in Midnight’s Children – though at the same time reiterate to me how much more palatable a book is to me if it takes time to be crafted, controlled, and made human.