I read only fiction. A friend recently poked a book about nutrition at me, leaving me to wonder—doesn’t she know me at all? A well-written work of fiction can change your world view. It will stay with you for life. It also entertains. Some novels manage to do all three. Here’s what I’ve been reading:
Cloud Cuckoo Land by Anthony Doerr. A nonsensical title taken from an Aristophanes play concerning a fool who searches for the impossible rather than learn to live with reality. The blurb telling how the ancient text influences individuals throughout centuries left me skeptical. It seemed an unattainably lofty ambition and it sounded boring—Ancient text? Yawn. Also, this author wrote All the Light You Cannot See, one of so many overly lauded heart-rending World War Two dramas, which I’d found predictable and contrived, though it did win the Pulitzer Prize because, you know, WWII. In comparison, Cloud Cuckoo Land was a much better novel. And it delivered on its promise—the Aristophanes writings did indeed connect a young ox-driver from the fall of Troy, a POW in Vietnam, and a spaceship carrying pilgrims from a destroyed earth in search of a new home. The writing was flawless, the characters diverse and compelling. The imposing ambition fully met its promise. As outstanding literary works go, this one will still be on the must-read lists in fifty years.
Go Tell the Bees That I am Gone by Diana Gabaldon; ninth in the Outlander saga. There’s really no point in my recommending it unless it’s to recommend the entire series, which I do, highly. If you’re my age and you’re just picking up the first book you’ll be happily occupied until you die. This installment is what’s expected—the continuation of the time-travel tale that began in Scotland right before the Battle of Culloden in 1745, through to this one, which finds the Frasers caught up in the American Revolutionary War in 1779. They’re all well-written and if anyone’s looking for a romping adventure with romance, pirates, and witches, well, there’s a reason why these books are so popular. However, this time I did get irritated because Gabaldon, working from timelines and family trees, brings back characters who last made an appearance several books ago; as a new book is only released every five or six years, continuity is lost. A swift reminder of who the character is and why he or she is pertinent should be included in the text, which is the way it’s usually done. At times I lost the thread because of not knowing who somebody was. While it’s my understanding that there’s a readers’ companion, I’m not going to consult an encyclopedia in order to read a book about time travel. That’s just silly.
Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman. This won British Book of the Year five or six years ago. I read it then, but it recently came into my hands as a gift from a Master’s student at Exeter who knows my work well because she wrote her dissertation concerning my treatment of humankind’s relationship with material items. Her giving me this champion of a book told me that she saw the similarities in our work, in the wry first-person narrative, and in the contrast between tragedy and humor. If you enjoyed my work you’ll love Eleanor Oliphant; having received this book I remembered how great it was and I read it again. Eleanor is multi-layered and multi-flawed. Her sarcasm is harsh and her critical attitude is cringeworthy. She doesn’t grasp social norms, has poor communication skills, and has given up trying to do anything other than exist. Though her sharp wit appeals, she’s hardly likeable—but as her background is revealed, it begins to seem like the fault isn’t Eleanor’s, but every person who’s passed through her life, a communal guilt. Want a lesson in empathy? Want to root for an underdog? Juxtaposing tragedy and humor can be tricky, and Honeyman has a gift for it. I highly recommend Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine and, come to think of it, I’m going to read it again in five years because every once in a while a person needs a lesson in how to see invisible people.
Troubled Blood by Robert Galbraith—JK Rowling’s mystery series, although why the pseudonym when everybody who cares knows Galbraith’s identity? In this novel the characters, Cormoran Strike and Margot Bamborough, partners in a detective firm, seek to discover what happened to a woman who’s been missing for nearly thirty years. Due to solving several high-profile cases, the firm has expanded so that now our two sleuths have taken on an office manager and a couple of consultants. These mysteries are driven more by character than plot. Cormoran is the illegitimate son of a rock star, has a narcissistic bipolar ex-mistress, and is a war amputee. Margot is haunted by rape, has been betrayed by her husband, and is made to feel inadequate by her family. As a reader, I care more about what’s going on between Cormaran and Margot than I do about whichever case they’re working on, though the plots are always well-thought out, with plenty of clues and twists. What draws me is the sizzling unfulfilled attraction—will these two scarred people ever be brave another to take the first step? This question’s what keeps me coming back.
The Lincoln Highway, by Amor Towles. Because I loved A Gentleman in Moscow, I was looking forward to reading this. In fact, I placed it at the bottom my list because I wanted to savor it. Oh dear; I meant for this list to be a list of recommendations, but I warn against spending your money on The Lincoln Highway. I know how reviews can wound an ego, so ordinarily I’m firmly disinclined to offer negative feedback. But shame on Penguin/Random House. This poorly written, poorly edited road trip tale is the result of a publisher pressuring an author to dig into his old files, because after A Gentleman in Moscow anything, anything with his name on it will sell. With work a gifted writer can make any situation seem magical, no matter how pedestrian; but there’s nothing brilliant about this, so I must conclude that the work was not done. About a third of the way through, Emmet describes his mother going to the attic to fetch the picnic basket down to the kitchen. There was no beauty in the phrasing or originality in the observations, no reason at all for this three-page ramble to and from the attic. At this point I had to put it down because this sort of tedious narrative makes me feel nauseated and woozy. Meandering, uninspired, callow, and disorganized. Disappointing.
So that’s what I’ve been doing for the last four months. What will I pick up next? Recommendations?
