The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes

I honestly have no excuse not to read Parrot and Olivier in America - yes it's stuck on my broken kindle but aunt Hwee did lend me her hard copy, two inches thick and all.  It's just that its size is hardly inviting, especially when compared to Julian  Barnes' compact little bestseller that's making headlines everywhere now.  So with my sincerest apologies to Peter Carey, and a promise that I will finish reading Parrot and Olivier if it kills me, here's my review of the Booker's recently declared winner.

The Sense of an Ending was surprisingly easy to read for something so thought-provoking.  Barnes writes about the imperfection of memory; the way it beguiles and deceives.  The narrator is Tony Webster, well past middle-aged and looking back at a particular point in his life, trying to make sense of the things that happened during a tumultuous time.  What he remembers and what actually happened are, of course, quite separate matters.

Nocturnes by Kazuo Ishiguro

 

There it is, my faithful friend - broken. 

I can't quite bear the thought of replacing it yet, so it's a good thing I had Nocturnes sitting steadfast by my bedside.

Nocturnes is a collection of five short stories, all centered around the theme of music and the passing of time.  I suppose it says as much on the cover, much more poetically than I ever could - "Five Stories of Music and Nightfall".

The "nightfall" part requires a bit of thinking.  Certainly there are key events which happen at night or in the evening.  But that's a bit too literal - nightfall refers to the setting of the sun on - the close, the end of - relationships in a world where too many things, from friendship to marriage, are transient.  Ishiguro seeks to capture those fleeting moments in our lives when a connection is made with someone, but that connection is destined not to last, except in memory. 

In a Strange Room by Damon Galgut

Grove Atlantic, 2010

This is a collection of three separate journeys undertaken by a South African traveller, Damon.  The author, Damon Galgut, is South African.  The character, Damon, is a writer.  I'm not sure how much of the work is actually autobiographical, but I imagine that it must be. 

Because what is certain is that the words on the page come from a deeply personal, intimate place.  Damon's travels are isolated and lonely, yet his memories feel familiar.  It is as if a window to a man's soul has been opened, and when you look in, you see yourself standing there.  Author, character and reader form some kind of trinity and there is a sense that it does not matter whether Damon the traveller and Damon Galgut the author are one and the same.

The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga

Atlantic, 2008

I should probably focus on reviewing the two remaining books I've earmarked to complete Project Booker but I was in the mood for a bit of comic relief so I scanned my bookshelf, and The White Tiger called out to me.  I thought I heard a wolf-whistle.  Though I've read it before, I responded to its proposition, since it is a champion specimen and we are on the subject of the Man Booker Prize after all.

When The White Tiger pounced upon the Booker 3 years ago, I was delighted.  It is not a dramatic / epic colonial saga by an Indian author that typically finds its way to the shortlist every couple years or so.  For once, a truly humorous novel with a young, modern voice was given the recognition it deserved.  Not satirical humour (though there is that), nothing you have to "get", not clever dry wit, slightly removed - No, this was in-your-face, dark, unadulterated comedy.

On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan

 My copy of On Chesil Beach has this description by the Independent on Sunday on its front cover: "Wonderful...Exquisite...Devastating". I can't think of three words that are more apt for this novel.

This is a monumental endeavour.  Though he makes it look easy, McEwan sets out to capture, in a mere 150 pages (or thereabouts), a turning point.  The separate lives of Edward Mayhew and Florence Ponting have brought them to where they are now; we see how they grew up, how they met, how they fell in love.  Perhaps we might think that their lives were too divergent to now run in parallel, but here, at this brief but important intersection, the split-second decisions they make, right down to the words they choose, will chart the course of their lives permanently.

(Please note spoilers ahead.)

C by Tom McCarthy

Jonathan Cape, 2010

I've been struggling for weeks to get through this book and have finally finished.  If not for the fact that I've said in an earlier post that I'd make a review of it, I'd have long given up.

This is one of those post-modern, experimental works that I don't quite know how to appreciate.  That the plot is inconsequential I can accept.  What I cannot abide are improbable, surreal characters that I am unable to identify with.  While I understand that a novel may be an abstract piece of art, my preference is for writing that tries to reach out to rather than alienate readers.  That is of course my own opinion - there is an entire genre of works that eschews conventional literary devices such as characterisation.

The Finkler Question by Howard Jacobson

Bloomsbury, 2010

The Finkler Question really is about what you might call the Finkler question.  It is an almost perfect title. Early on in the piece, Jacobson makes it clear that the word "Finkler" is a substitute for "Jew" or "Jewish".  And so the book is an exploration by a Jewish author of the various lines dividing Jews and non-Jews, whether those lines are clear or indistinct, and, perhaps more importantly, whether or not they can be crossed. And by whom. This, to me, is perhaps best summed up by a line in the book:

As always he wondered if he would ever get to the bottom of what Finklers were permitted to say about themselves that non-Finklers were not.

I did and continue to wonder whether Jacobson would have been able to write this book were he not himself Jewish.

February by Lisa Moore

Anansi, 2009

I was itching to write this review even before I finished the book. But now that I've finished and I'm putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) I am not sure how to start, and what combination of words to use.  I am staggered by the depth of its reach into me.

Let's start with what the novel is about. It is about Helen O'Mara, whose husband Cal died on the Ocean Ranger oil rig off the coast of Newfoundland one stormy Valentines' night. It's about how she copes with desperate grief, in the face of which time resolutely refuses to stand still - pregnant Helen has to summon all her strength and raise their four young children without Cal. The narrative moves back and forth in time, and we see Helen at various stages of a long life. Somehow she pulls through. She has lost the love of her life, but she is surrounded by those who love her with so much of theirs.

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte



Book Cover by Fritz Eichenberg
1943 Random House publication of
Wuthering Heights

Having read Wuthering Heights over 10 years ago, I recently felt a desperate need to return to it after listening to the song of the same title by Josh Pyke, which is actually a cover of Kate Bush's 1978 original. Josh Pyke's rendition is a fresh and very different take on the song, yet equally haunting. The name "Heathcliff" circling my head for days, I decided to try and find my old copy of the book - no luck - and ended up buying a penguin classics copy for $4.95. Sometimes the price you pay just isn't commensurate with the value of what you buy, and it's nice when it's this way around.

Of all the things I can say about Wuthering Heights, and believe me, I have been struggling for weeks if not months to put some structure to my thoughts, I would first of all say is a brilliantly constructed novel. The textual integrity is so great it grips you from the very beginning just like those ghostly hands on Lockwood's window, and demands to be re-read the moment you finish. Lockwood's confusion is the reader's confusion regarding the identities of the various Earnshaws, Lintons and Heathcliffs and the opening scene at Wuthering Heights is not fully understood until close to the end of the novel - which brings us full circle (but of course). Lockwood's gleeful voyeurism becomes ours too as we delve into the dark and murky depths spanning Thrushcross Grange and Wuthering Heights, with Nelly Dean as our competent tour guide. The wild and unforgiving landscape within which the novel is set permeates our every sense, because its effects are not so much described per se, as manifested in the characters. Reading becomes an almost physical experience. It's like going on one of those haunted house theme park rides, without ever having to leave your couch.

The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery

(Translated from the French by Alison Anderson)

The premise of this book is deliciously enticing.

Renee Michel is a fifty-something concierge of an elite hotel particulier for the extremely wealthy at 7, rue de Grenelle. She fits perfectly into the stereotype of what an elderly female concierge should be. But that's because Madame Michel makes a concerted effort to appear that way. In fact, she is an avid lover of art and literature, well-versed in philosophy and a language pedant. She strenuously, ingeniously and very funnily conceals this aspect of herself. Deep down she has a mortal fear of being discovered traversing beyond the constraints of her social class.

Paloma Josse is a twelve-year-old inhabitant of the building. She is intelligent beyond her years and has figured out the charade of adulthood - that we are children all, unaware that we are trapped in a goldfish bowl. Consequently she embraces the meaninglessness of life and has resolved to commit suicide, and, in a symbolic attempt to escape the goldfish bowl, burn down the apartment. Paloma too tries to hide her intelligence by donning a cloak of mediocrity. She resorts to hiding in order to pen down her thoughts in her diary. To which we are, happily, privy.

Alligator by Lisa Moore

This was a bit of a difficult read - it is bleak and at some points horrifying. Set in St John's on the island of Newfoundland in Canada, it opens with a short narrative about an alligator whose jaw snaps shut on a man's head. Or rather, a man who sticks his head into an alligator's open jaw in front of an audience. A drop of his sweat lands in the alligator's mouth. Snap.

Cloudstreet by Tim Winton

I am ashamed to say that in all my years of living in Sydney, I never picked up a Tim Winton novel to read. And that Cloudstreet, my first Tim Winton, was bought at the Sydney Airport, as I was just about to get on a plane to start my life back in Singapore.

I'd always scoffed at the thought of Aussie literature. Despite friends recommending a whole host of great Aussie novels, I resisted. I was a foolish snob. Thankfully, the beauty of books is that they never expire. A good book will sit there, faithfully waiting for you to pick it up, realize its worth, and devour it. Better late than never. I've learnt my lesson.

I think I will always remember Cloudstreet as the book that made me ache for Australia. It is quintessentially Australian, and for every reason that I thought I would hate this kind of book, I loved it. I shall now, as a form of atonement, list those reasons here.

Solar by Ian McEwan

 Ian McEwan is the only author whose books I refuse to buy on my Kindle. When Solar was released earlier this year, I went out to the bookstore and bought a hard copy of it so I can display it on my bookshelf along with the rest of his books. Not because I am vain about my book collection, but because I feel, rather absurdly, like I'm doing something for him in my own small way. No no, Ian, thank YOU.

For the reasons stated here, On Chesil Beach remains my favourite McEwan novel.  Notwithstanding, Solar was wonderfully enjoyable and well worth writing a review about, so here goes. My maiden attempt.