August Reading
The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, by David Mitchell
A bit special. More here.
Trespass, by Rose Tremain
On the Booker longlist with Thousand Autumns, this is some leagues below it in terms of breadth of vision. Its strength, though, is that rather narrow focus - Tremain's previous, The Road Home was lauded but felt to me bloated. Here, she is in pared-down form, telling the story of two inter-related families: one a trio of British ex-pats living the dream in rural France; the other siblings who live in a tumbledown farmhouse in the same idyllic landscape. The latter, however, have a tortured relationships - the sister subject to a quiet horrific menage a trois with her brother and late father, which has scarred and stunted her. Some broad brush characterisation strengthens rather than simplifies this simple tale of revenge and a variety of innocences lost: it adds colour where all else, from the farmhouse stone to the poetic tone, is rather grey. Limited, even predictable, but polished.
The Secret Agent, by Joseph Conrad
I've never got on with Conrad, and must now suspect I never will. Like Heart of Darkness, I can understand why The Secret Agent is significant and important; also like that earlier novella, that doesn't make it enjoyable. There is something about the way Conrad writes almost gnomically that I cannot stomach, something also of course in the manner in which deals with nation and empire. Thoroughly contemporary in subject matter, no doubt, The Secret Agent is a story of terrorism, its causes and consequences, and also a somewhat torturous family drama, too. Perhaps this is its problem - its satire feels at times forced, its conclusions rather plain. And, of course, there that bloody prose style. To be fair to the point of self-denial: not bad, but not for me. Let's move on. (Unless someone wants to convince me otherwise?)
Love and Summer, by William Trevor
I suspect this will be the subject of a post at the other place, but briefly: this is a sublime example of the late novel. Trevor is of course getting on in years now, but on this evidence his Jamesian powers are undimmed. Here is a tale of quite complicated love, one which has the heat and shimmery beauty of summer, but also its brevity and destructiveness. The novel reminded me in tenor and content of Colm Toibin's Brooklyn, also published last year but unlike this shortlisted for the Booker. I can imagine no real reason why Toibin got the nod and Trevor didn't except that Toibin allowed himself a bigger canvas: no one really leaves the village in Trevor's novel, much less moves to America. But this results in a tenderer, more convincing picture of the claustrophobic-yet-humane village life which bookends Brooklyn. Rather lovely, and not a little painful.
The Best of Larry Niven, edited by Jonathan Strahan
Not without its strengths, but deadeningly limited. For Strange Horizons review.
A bit special. More here.
Trespass, by Rose Tremain
On the Booker longlist with Thousand Autumns, this is some leagues below it in terms of breadth of vision. Its strength, though, is that rather narrow focus - Tremain's previous, The Road Home was lauded but felt to me bloated. Here, she is in pared-down form, telling the story of two inter-related families: one a trio of British ex-pats living the dream in rural France; the other siblings who live in a tumbledown farmhouse in the same idyllic landscape. The latter, however, have a tortured relationships - the sister subject to a quiet horrific menage a trois with her brother and late father, which has scarred and stunted her. Some broad brush characterisation strengthens rather than simplifies this simple tale of revenge and a variety of innocences lost: it adds colour where all else, from the farmhouse stone to the poetic tone, is rather grey. Limited, even predictable, but polished.
The Secret Agent, by Joseph Conrad
I've never got on with Conrad, and must now suspect I never will. Like Heart of Darkness, I can understand why The Secret Agent is significant and important; also like that earlier novella, that doesn't make it enjoyable. There is something about the way Conrad writes almost gnomically that I cannot stomach, something also of course in the manner in which deals with nation and empire. Thoroughly contemporary in subject matter, no doubt, The Secret Agent is a story of terrorism, its causes and consequences, and also a somewhat torturous family drama, too. Perhaps this is its problem - its satire feels at times forced, its conclusions rather plain. And, of course, there that bloody prose style. To be fair to the point of self-denial: not bad, but not for me. Let's move on. (Unless someone wants to convince me otherwise?)
Love and Summer, by William Trevor
I suspect this will be the subject of a post at the other place, but briefly: this is a sublime example of the late novel. Trevor is of course getting on in years now, but on this evidence his Jamesian powers are undimmed. Here is a tale of quite complicated love, one which has the heat and shimmery beauty of summer, but also its brevity and destructiveness. The novel reminded me in tenor and content of Colm Toibin's Brooklyn, also published last year but unlike this shortlisted for the Booker. I can imagine no real reason why Toibin got the nod and Trevor didn't except that Toibin allowed himself a bigger canvas: no one really leaves the village in Trevor's novel, much less moves to America. But this results in a tenderer, more convincing picture of the claustrophobic-yet-humane village life which bookends Brooklyn. Rather lovely, and not a little painful.
The Best of Larry Niven, edited by Jonathan Strahan
Not without its strengths, but deadeningly limited. For Strange Horizons review.