book-review

Seascraper

~ michaeljhealy ~ Leave a comment

Thomas Flett is a shanker. Every morning at low tide he takes his horse and wagon to the beach, scrapes the sand and the shallow waters for shrimp, and delivers his haul for sale in the nearby town. He does it reluctantly and even resentfully, dreaming all the while of the folk music he would like to write and perform. Thomas lives with his mother in a rundown cottage. Money is scarce, so he conceals his ambitions from her, hiding his guitar and everything of his inner life. Work is hard, leaving him little or no time to follow his dreams, until one day, without warning, an American film director shows up scouting for suitable locations for his new project.

Disappointed and disillusioned young men, tied to labors they loathe, tethered by poverty, and dreaming of other lives are something of a literary staple. Think of Thomas Hardy, for example. Seascraper is firmly within that tradition. That in no way is intended to diminish Benjamin Wood’s achievement here. His tale is a memorable and poignant one, and he writes with great feeling for the frustrations of daily life and especially of thwarted ambition. In spite of that, Seascraper for me didn’t quite come off. It’s filled with atmosphere and the character of Thomas is written with subtlety and insight, but minor characters feel sketched rather than fully drawn. Nevertheless, this is a fine novel and one I’m pleased to have read.

On James Baldwin

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When I heard that Colm Toibin, one of my favorite writers, had written a book about James Baldwin, I was intrigued. I saw the obvious biographical similarities between the two. Both of them gay men, both with experience of living and writing in adopted homelands (Baldwin in France, Toibin in the US), and both touched deeply in different ways by the religious traditions in which they were raised. Intrigued and enthused I might have been, but I was also a little concerned that the book might demand a deep knowledge of Baldwin’s work (something I don’t have), and might be academic or dry (it’s published by a university press). I need not have worried. No doubt I would have got more from On James Baldwin if I had read more of Baldwin’s work or if I knew better books such as Giovanni’s Room, but this is as much a book about Toibin as it is about Baldwin. It’s also one that draws insightful parallels with the work of other notable emigre writers such as James Joyce, Ernest Hemingway, and Henry James. Best of all, it made me want to read more James Baldwin, and I guess that’s mission accomplished!

Austerity Britain: 1945-1951

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I set myself the challenge some time ago to read David Kynaston’s monumental history of post-war Britain. I thought of it as a challenge not because it’s a difficult read. Far from it. Kynaston writes elegantly and clearly and is never dull. It is, however, a long series, running to some 2,500 pages over the four volumes covering 1945 and 1965. (Further books are planned taking the series to 1979).

I have just finished the first volume, Austerity Britain: 1945-1951 and was mightily impressed by it. Political and social history is rarely as vivid and engaging as this. It begins with Britons celebrating the end of World War 2 and ends with the run-up to the election of 1951 and the return to power of Winston Churchill, by then in his mid-70s. The period was, for the vast majority of British people, one marked by deprivation and hardship. These were years of empty shelves, ration books, shopping coupons, and general drabness. Yet against this background the British people were living through a period of extraordinary innovation and change. These were the years that saw the launch of The National Health Service, the beginnings of comprehensive education, extensive nationalization of key industries, and the rebuilding of much of the country’s urban infrastructure after the devastating destruction of the war and earlier social neglect.

Kynaston’s extraordinary achievement is to compose an utterly convincing “soundscape” of British life in the period by collecting so many voices and stories from such a range of people. This is not history told by the great and the good. The important politicians of the time (Attlee, Bevan, Wilson, and so on) feature, of course, but so do hundreds of ordinary citizens from all over the country. Miners, shopkeepers, factory workers, and housewives are all given a voice here through letters, diaries, and the findings of the Mass-Observation research project started in the 1930s.

In many respects, and perhaps only in the most superficial and obvious respects, Britain today looks, sounds, and feels nothing like the nation of the 1940s, but I was struck most not by the differences but by the similarities of the country eight decades apart. So many of the same problems persist. Managing the consequences of its long gone empire, deep class and wealth divisions, vital social issues such as affordable housing; these were the challenges of the 1940s and continue to be challenges eighty years later.

A Whole Life

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Flicking through a Saturday edition of The Financial Times recently, I came across one of those Q&As in which someone in the public eye (I’ve forgotten who) is asked about their interests, habits, recommendations, and so on. The interviewee, when asked about the best book they had read in the past year, spoke effusively about Robert Seethaler’s novella, A Whole Life. I had never heard of the writer or the book and was surprised to learn that the book had been shortlisted for the Man Booker International Prize. My only surprise after reading it is that it didn’t win.

In 150 pages of spare, elegant prose, Seethaler tells the story of Andreas Egger, a man who spends almost his entire life in the mountains of Austria. It’s a life of great simplicity marked by hard work, hardship, occasional cruelty, and a lot of solitude. “He had never felt compelled to believe in God, and he wasn’t afraid of death. He couldn’t remember where he had come from, and ultimately he didn’t know where he would go. But he could look back without regret on the time in between, his life, with a full-throated laugh and utter amazement.”

A Whole Life is, quite simply, a wonderful work of art. What it does with great stealth and skill, in spare, soft-spoken prose of real elegance and power, is capture a simple life, and to encourage those who read it, without sermonizing, to make the best of their lives however those lives turn out. Unmissable, A Whole Life is close to perfection.

The Optimists

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Like most people with large book collections and limited shelving space, from time to time I fill a few bags with the unwanted and unloved and make a trip to the local thrift store. While doing so recently, I came across The Optimists by Andrew Miller. Miller is one of my favorite novelists, so it was a little bit of a shock (and a pleasant surprise) to discover an unread book by him in one of my bookcases. The novel was published twenty years ago. That makes it one of his earliest novels, but also one released after he had received some critical acclaim (for Oxygen).

In my experience anything by Miller is worth reading, but The Optimists is the least persuasive and satisfying of those I read previously. The plot is engaging enough, focusing on Clem Glass, a celebrated war photographer adjusting to life at home following an assignment in Africa in which he had witnessed and recorded unimaginable horrors. It’s also an ambitious book, exploring recovery from trauma, the role and value of artists in the face of wickedness, and the tricky relationship between images and truth. The ambition isn’t part of the failure of this novel. It’s the transparency of the ambition and the obviousness of Miller’s plan that undermines what he wanted to achieve. It’s all just a little too evident and too neatly packaged, and the lack of subtlety became distracting and grating. Also, the imaginative effort required to get into the mind and experience of a war photographer exposed to atrocities is just too much for Miller. It felt forced and ultimately unconvincing.

So, not one of Andrew Miller’s most satisfying or successful novels, but a thoughtful and thought-provoking read nevertheless.

Let me go mad in my own way

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Claire teaches literature at a university in the west of Ireland. She has left her life in London and, after the deaths of her parents and the end of her relationship to Tom, has moved back to where she grew up. Whatever she’s escaping from or whatever she’s hoping to find, it’s all put in jeopardy when Tom moves into a friend’s cottage nearby ….

I bought my copy of Elaine Feeney’s latest novel on the strength of an earlier one I had read and enjoyed (How to Build a Boat) which had been longlisted for the Booker Prize. I had high hopes but turned the final page with a little disappointment.

There is some exceptional writing in the novel. The Christmas meal hosted by Claire for her friends and family, the childhood flashback when a horse is injured, and especially the harrowing visit of the Black and Tans are rendered so vividly and persuasively. The problem is with the whole, not individual parts. At no point did I care much or at all about Claire’s emotional attachment to Tom or the anguish and joy it provoked. Without that, what was supposed to be the heart of the story didn’t move or engage me at all and I was left occasionally admiring but never immersed.

All the Beauty in the World

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I rarely notice museum guards. When I do, I find myself pitying them. The job looks exhausting and boring in equal measure. Being surrounded by priceless treasures cannot be much compensation in the circumstances. Patrick Bringley’s delightful account of working for ten years at The Metropolitan Museum did little to change my outlook, at least as far as that particular job is concerned.

All the Beauty in the World tells his story. Leaving behind an enviable position at The New Yorker magazine, Bringley, devastated by the illness and death of his much loved older brother, sought (and found) refuge and consolation amid the beauties and wonders of The Met’s collections. In his decade as a guard, Bringley learned a lot about art and history, but much more about himself and the life he wanted to live. It’s no exaggeration to say art saved his life. It taught him how to look and to live. Whether one believes there is a “purpose” to art or not, surely no one who loves looking at pictures and sculptures denies their power to heal, console, educate and transform. The book is a deeply felt account of his journey, and along the way it gives us a fond and funny insider’s account of that extraordinary institution and some of the people who protect its treasures and educate its visitors. I recommend it highly.

Ripley’s Game

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In need of some vacation reading, I dropped by a local bookstore in Sorrento with a couple of shelves of English-language novels and found Patricia Highsmith’s Ripley’s Game. That seemed like a perfect choice because the film and TV adaptions of The Talented Mr. Ripley had been shot, at least in part, along the beautiful Amalfi coast. And so it proved. Ripley’s Game is a tightly plotted and psychologically convincing novel, written by a master of the genre when she was at the height of her powers. Highsmith’s preoccupation is a simple and important one. If the circumstances are propitious, can a conventional, respectable person be convinced to commit an evil act? What does it take to tip a good man into murder?

I have read more plausible stories, but I enjoyed every page of my first Ripley novel and am now looking forward to the others.

Twelve Post-War Tales

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Graham Swift has for me been the most consistently satisfying storyteller from that generation of British writers that began to publish in the early 1980s. Some of his peers have been more prolific (Ian McEwan and Salman Rushdie), and others have won greater acclaim (Kazuo Ishiguro and Julian Barnes), but Swift is the one whose books I look forward to most and have been the most dependably rewarding.

Twelve Post-War Tales is, I think, only his third collection of short stories in a writing career that began in 1980. Many of the stories feature, directly or indirectly, a moment or incident of great crisis for the world. A retired doctor volunteers his time to help out at his local hospital during the COVID pandemic. The attacks of September 11th upend the plans of a family due to return to America after a diplomatic posting to London comes to an end. Pearl Harbor, the assassination of JFK, the burning of Crystal Palace, and the Blitz; incidents of global or national importance become the lens through which a small, individual life is examined for signs of impact and trauma.

The writing here is masterful, as anyone who knows Swift would expect, and there’s something arresting and truthful in every story. Having said that, it’s an uneven collection, and one or two of the tales miss the intended marks. A small quibble. This is a wonderful book by a master of the short story art.

Our Evenings

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Critics love Alan Hollinghurst’s work. They receive every new novel with rapturous reviews. They applaud the elegance of his prose, the emotional precision of his observations, the brilliance of his characterizations, and celebrate him as the great chronicler of gay lives and experience in recent decades. His most recent novel, Our Evenings, has been greeted in very much the same vein, with some critics saying it is his best yet.

We meet Dave Win at the beginning of the novel looking back on his early life from the vantage point of middle age. With an English mother and an absent Burmese father, Dave’s dark skin makes him a target at a rural boarding school in postwar England. Dave is a scholarship boy of very limited means (his mother is a seamstress), and the beneficiary of a rich patron’s generosity. His school friends are well aware of his precocious intelligence and his relative poverty, and his status as the outsider looking on from the sidelines is confirmed as he moves to Oxford. He excels there as a student actor and, after university, drifts into acting jobs in television and theatre.

I felt peculiarly detached from Our Evenings. It was easy to admire Hollinghurst’s style, but little here really engaged me, other than perhaps the touching portrayal of Dave’s love for his mother. I think that may be because so much of the ground felt well trodden by novelists of the past. The man, defined as an outsider by his race, skin color, social class, and sexuality, looking into, but never fully joining, the lives of his “betters” is a theme that many others have felt drawn to, and it takes some special ingredient to elevate it to somewhere that feels new and special. I could not detect or experience that ingredient and I closed the book at the end with a feeling of admiration but no real sense of immersion.