Kate Atkinson’s latest novel is the sixth to feature Jackson Brodie, the sour and sweet private investigator. We find him back in the north of England, Yorkshire specifically, hired to investigate the disappearance of a valuable painting. The missing painting leads to another missing painting which in turn leads to a shadowy woman who may (or may not) have stolen them both. Brodie’s sleuthing takes him to a country house hotel in a snow storm. Not just any country house hotel, but one hosting a Murder Mystery Night for its guests ….
If this all sounds a little like Agatha Christie, that’s exactly what Kate Atkinson intends. In the hands of a less accomplished writer, not to mention one with a less sure comic touch, it might all seem more than a little self-conscious or twee. That is not the case here. Atkinson is having fun adapting a well-worn genre to her popular Brodie series and the fun is infectious. Having said that, the build-up to the gathering of the characters at the hotel (roughly the first two thirds of the novel) was what I enjoyed the most. The denouement was a bit too contrived for my tastes.
Death at the Sign of the Rook is a light and frothy tale and a great addition to the series. Perfect holiday reading.
At some point it would be good to take my time and wander around the Yucatan peninsula at my own pace, exploring the many Mayan archaeological sites for which it is famous. On a recent and very brief visit to the region I had to restrict myself to a single nearby treasure, Chichen Itza, the complex of Mayan ruins dominated by the massive step pyramid known as El Castillo. The city prospered between 600 and 1200 A.D. and even in today’s much diminished site it is obvious that it was built by a thriving civilization.
Chichen Itza’s proximity to the coastal resorts means it is often choked with tourists, so it is wise to pick the time of one’s visit carefully. It is also worth noting the large number of vendors surrounding the site that sell all sorts of tourist tat. Once inside the main site it is easy enough to ignore them, but prepare to be hassled on the way in and out.
I enjoyed the visit immensely. It provoked a determination to visit the region for a longer period and to learn more about Mayan civilization before I make my next trip.
Niall Williams’ latest novel is one of the finest I have read in a very long time. I rarely use the word, but I think it’s a masterpiece. The novel is beautifully crafted and practically every sentence is a joy to read. It is written with a lyricism that is so rare in contemporary fiction and with a sensitivity for language and for its nuances that feels like a skill from a bygone age. Who else writes like this today? Marilynne Robinson comes to mind, but few others.
Time of the Child is set in the fictional village of Faha in the west of Ireland. The time is December 1962. Electricity, televisions, and telephones came to the village just a few years earlier, but many of Faha’s residents are stuck in earlier times. They live in houses illuminated by candles and heated by peat fires. They work mostly on the land, and the rhythms of their lives are set by the changing seasons and by religious festivals. The priests have power. The church and the pubs are where people meet. If this sounds far-fetched, it isn’t. My childhood visits to rural Connemara and West Cork started in the mid-1960s, and Williams’ depiction of the place is faithful to what I saw and experienced.
A gift arrives in this isolated and timeless place. A newborn baby is abandoned in the village churchyard and discovered by a local boy. Thinking it dead, he takes it to the local doctor. What happens next is a mystery. Whether by Dr. Troy’s skill or the power of prayer, the baby girl is revived and given the name Noelle. No more about the plot. I do not want to spoil anyone’s enjoyment of the novel.
Time of the Child is everything I want in a novel. Exquisite lyrical prose, deep insight into what it is to be human and humane, into how to live alone and in community, and what it means to be open to the possibility of transformation and redemption.
A new book from Tessa Hadley is always a treat, even a slim novella like The Party. It ought perhaps to have been called Two Parties because the story is bookended by two social events, attended by two sisters, Evelyn and Moira, both students. The first takes place in a Bristol pub shortly after the end of World War Two and the second, more of an ad hoc get-together, in a grand but faded house elsewhere in the city the following weekend.
How far can any of us really achieve the lives we want to have? What real influence do we have over the shape of our future? Can we realize the lives we want by sheer force of personality and determination, or are our futures mapped out for us by factors over which we have so little control such as class or gender constraints, real or perceived? These are the questions that interest Tessa Hadley, and she uses the sisters with their common upbringing and history as exemplars of two distinct perspectives. Not that Moira and Evelyn are simple cyphers. Not at all. Hadley is far too accomplished a writer for that, and Evelyn especially is a brilliantly realized character.
Does this all sound a little old-fashioned, like Anita Brookner or Barbara Pym for the 21st century? Perhaps, but don’t be put off. There is more inventiveness, daring, and insight in Hadley’s writing than some more experimental novelists can dream of realizing.
Only a very confident and self-assured author takes a familiar genre, in this case the spy novel, and uses it as a channel for ideas. A burden comes with that decision. Spy novels are traditionally plot-driven vehicles and readers of the genre expect pace, twists and turns, and action. So manipulating and subverting the classic espionage tale is all very well, but the ideas had better be worth the effort and at least some of the familiar features of the genre had better be respected. No one ought to buy Creation Lake expecting a conventional spy novel, and anyone who does will be disappointed. If that happens, some reviewers might be responsible. The Guardian critic talked about “a killer plot and expert pacing”. That’s downright misleading in my view.
Sadie Smith, the heroine and narrator of Rachel Kushner’s latest novel, is a spy working in the private sector and has an assignment to infiltrate a shadowy group in rural France suspected of planning acts of sabotage. Sadie is unscrupulous, a quality that might be considered an asset in her line of work. It has, however, got her into trouble in the past when, working for a spy agency in the US, she was found to have entrapped an innocent man and got fired as a result. Now in France, she has seduced an impressionable activist to gain entry to the suspected terrorist cell. This lack of a moral compass might be Sadie’s least unattractive quality. Her superficial pronouncements on everything from Europe and its culture (overrated) to Italian food (horrible), her glib philosophizing (“The truth of a person, under all the layers and guises, is a substance that is pure, and stubborn, and consistent”), her unassailable belief in the superiority of English (in other words American) culture marks her out as the worst kind of entitled, privileged, and semi-educated American who has everything, values little, and has earned nothing. Sadie hacks into the emails of Bruno Lacombe, the leader and guru of the protest group, and pokes fun at his tiresome ideas, but his silly intellectualizing about what we can learn from Neanderthals makes him look like a genius compared to Sadie and her moral vacuity.
I am surprised that Creation Lake was shortlisted for The Booker Prize. It’s a novel that’s executed with lots of confidence and it’s an enjoyable enough read, but I couldn’t shake off the feeling that there’s no substance or heart in the book. Rachel Kushner’s critical reputation seems to be growing with every new novel, but on the evidence of the two I have read (The Flamethrowers and Creation Lake), I don’t understand why.
Miscellaneous Musings 