This is a book I didn’t want to read. To be honest I found Nick Hornby’s last novel A Long Way Down somewhat weak, and this latest – Slam, an attempt at teen fiction – simply didn’t appeal at all. And to be really honest, I only considered picking it up after my wife had bought a copy through the half price offer with The Times. And I only started reading it because I found myself suddenly and inexplicably bookless. So it was a pleasant surprise to find Hornby back on top form with his best work since High Fidelity.
Slam is told in the familiar voice that’s characteristic of all Nick Hornby novels. Self-depreciating, very funny and observant, with comments on everyday life usually annoyingly obvious in the I wish I’d thought of that sense. The voice here is one of a fifteen year old boy, but Hornby only alters his style slightly to result in a minor variation on any of his previous narrators. The strength in the book lies in how Hornby takes a well tackled subject – teenage pregnancy – and makes it very witty, insightful and at times moving.
Ben is our teenager in question, obsessed with skateboarding and the hero of the pastime Tony Hawk (not to be confused with Tony Hawks by the way, who often appears on Radio 4 panel shows). The title of the book refers to accidents that befall the skateboarder, often prone to conflicts with concrete when their concentration slips. There’s a hint of loneliness in Ben’s life; he talks openly to the Tony Hawk poster in his room, and his mum feels compelled to drag him along to a party hoping he’ll find a nice girlfriend there. This is where things start to get complicated, a slam of gigantic proportions, and Hornby’s skill as a novelist means he can inject life into much used themes – divorced parents, class differences, adolescent woes – to make them fresh and interesting on the page. He also uses a very clever device – but I won’t spoil it for you – to allow his narrator small and sobering tastes of his immediate future. Slam is a growing up novel, a coming of age novel and story about coping with adulthood when it’s thrust upon you, and Hornby managed to keep me glued to the page throughout, quite an achievement as I was initially quite determined not to enjoy the book.
After a gradual decline into disappointment Nick Hornby has delivered the goods again, and Slam has reminded me just how good he is. It’s easy to forget; after Fever Pitch came a deluge of would-be Hornbys with their humourous tales of everyday British life. A particular type of novel – usually written by males born between the late 50s and early 70s – appeared everywhere and still continues to do so. But Hornby remains the master.
I enjoyed Tom McCarthy’s Remainer so much that I’m going to re-enact my enjoyment. Let me explain what I mean. I plan to hire an actor to fly to Madeira and sit on a hotel room balcony drinking the local beer, recreating the scene of me – on a few days holiday break – reading the book. The actor will read the book for most of the day, alternating between balcony and bedroom depending on the weather (note to self: need to find a way to recreate last week’s showers), leaving the room periodically (outside the scope of this re-enactment, but let’s assume he’s out doing odd bits of sightseeing and eating). He will appear to be enjoying the book tremendously, his face alternating between studious concern and mirth. He’ll be dressed in shorts and a flowery holiday shirt. When he’s finished the book he’ll turn back to the front and start again. Oh yes, and I’ll hire another actor to play my wife, lying on the bed and reading A Thousand Splendid Suns, and another to play the maid, ever eager to change the towels.
Have I gone mad? Perhaps. But anyone who’s read Remainder will hopefully understand perfectly, especially if they enjoyed this absorbing insight into the complications arising from an addition to repetition. Remainder has an unnamed narrator, suddenly eight and a half million pounds better off following compensation for a freak (but unspecified) accident. Recovering physically and (ostensibly) mentally, he throws his money into the stock market before deciding on a more offbeat project. Half remembered, half dreamlike, he imagines an intricately designed and populated building; piano music heard from a distant room, the smell of cooked liver wafting from a downstairs kitchen, cats walking across an adjacent roof. His great wealth allows him to recreate the dream exactly – proving that money will get you anything you desire. He buys a block of flats and converts it to his exact vision, hiring actors to play the roles of its inhabitants, including a designated “liver lady” and pianist. One re-enactment leads to another; from a rudimentary visit to a garage to drive-by shootings and eventually the idea of recreating a bank heist, the scenes renacted and recreated for our narrator, and replayed endlessly on a loop to satisfy him.
What makes Remainder such an excellent novel is McCarthy’s attention to detail and logic. Real life ephemeral scenes – such as the changing of a tyre – are opened up to show their fine detail and reliance on random and unique properties. Tripping over a kink in the carpet, dropping a bag of litter, all chaotic but carefully recreated. Reading this I became immersed in his narrator’s crazy world, half of me understanding him perfectly and half of me dreading what was to come as addiction is usually seen to spiral out of control. And McCarthy keeps you on edge right until the last page, where we reach a partially unresolved although somehow satisfying end. I’ll say no more because you really do need to read Remainder to appreciate just how good it is; well-written, absorbing, original, scary, mad.
Sometimes it’s hard to overcome your disappointment in a book.
Louis de Bernières published Birds Without Wings in 2004, a novel I regard highly and a work I really believe to be his masterpiece. It’s a big read; difficult and demanding at times, but so well written and executed that I’d place it alongside Dickens. Four years later comes A Partisan’s Daughter, a much slimmer and slighter work, and one that after taking me only a day to read has left me crying out for something more substantial.
A Partisan’s Daughter is an enjoyable enough novel. Mostly. Set in London in the early 1970s, it follows Chris, middle aged and dull at only forty, who approaches a girl who he believes to be a prostitute in an uncharacteristic moment of despair tinged with madness. Recovering from this awkward mistaken identity, the two, English and Yugoslavian, forge an unusual friendship, Chris visiting the run down house where the girl resides to share stories. The exchange appears one sided to Chris; he cannot compete with the exotic, exciting and sometimes disturbing visions from the girl’s past.
As the novel unfolds the reader is invited to question the validity of stories, and de Bernières poses a difficult question for the reader – do we sometimes do things simply in order to create an experience so that we can relate that experience to others? Do we embellish the truth? Do we tell stories to satisfy ourselves and to torment others? The themes are not new but they are well considered. Ultimately though I am disappointed; I miss the large canvas that de Bernières usually works with, he’s a big writer and I’m still waiting for something that will take much longer to digest. And I just hope I don’t have to wait another four years for it.
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