“Do not tell secrets to those whose faith and silence you have not already tested.”

Budapest street life. Hungary, April 2018.

I thought that I'd mark my return to this blog with a book review. Where better than to start with Kate Atkinson's Life after Life.

So often, experimental fiction doesn’t quite work. Interesting ideas become irritating, constantly shifting patterns or characters get annoying, and little showy quirks become ostentatious, pretentious and boring in longer form.

These are the risks that Kate Atkinson has taken in Life after Life. In constructing the novel in a series of repeated loops back in time (each loop triggered by the death of our heroine Ursula Todd), the author frees her creative hand in exploring a multitude of alternative possible lives that play out for a girl born into an upper-middle-class family in 1910’s Buckinghamshire.

While this may have resulted in a neat little exercise in authorial flamboyance that soon becomes tiresome, I found it a riveting device and one that Atkinson utilises to great effect. The gradual introduction of prescience into Ursula’s many lives and the nifty use of a Jungian psychologist lets the reader explore concepts like reincarnation, mysticism and parallel universes without forcing the issue.

In creating the domestic humdrum of life so beautifully, our investment in the many versions of Ursula (and her family) is used to supreme effect, granting the author a genuinely interesting and effective chance to explore how fiction works and how it may choose to impact readers. Moreover, it never felt forced or obtrusive (in the way that Calvino has always left me cold).

There’s an emotional elegance here that at once allows the author to show us her inner workings – Ursula’s existence as a fictional construct is consistently reinforced – but it is done in such a sensitive and compelling way that I could not resist the pain of losing her again and again.

I really loved it and have noted that many appear to take issue with the conclusion. Sure, it is a mind-fuck, but a mind-fuck that remains faithful to a novel that so exquisitely pushes against and extends the literary form.

It’s going to be hard for another book to top this one this year and having read this back-to-back with the masterful Shuggie Bain, I almost feel sorry for the next crop of books on my 'to read' list.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Comments

Mad as hell

So there I was, arm hooked up to the machine, watching my plasma swirl away into a bag while the morning news dribbled across the screen like a bad fever dream. And what were they showing? A "riot" in Melbourne, allegedly. The sort of riot where the real thugs wear body armour, carry pepper spray and look like they just walked off the set of RoboCop. The people they were beating? A ragtag crew of teenagers and old hippies—probably fresh out of a drum circle, still smelling of patchouli. But sure, let's call it a riot. Now, here's where it really gets good. I mentioned this spectacle to a few people later, thinking maybe they'd share my outrage or, at the very least, give a damn. But no. What did I get instead? A smirk, a chuckle, and—oh, the pièce de résistance—"You should really just let it go." Let it go? Yeah, let me uncork a nice, overpriced cup of coffee, sit back with my legs crossed, and soak in the latest reality TV trash. Why bother caring when ...

Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...

Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth.

This is the moon. Have I mentioned how much I adore the zoom on my camera? It's Theme Thursday you see, and after last week's limp effort, I have been thinking about how I might redeem myself. Then I clicked on the topic and discover that it was BUTTON. We've been hearing a lot about the moon in the past couple of weeks. Apparently some fellas went up there and played golf and what-not forty-odd years ago. The desire to get to the moon, however, was not simply about enhancing opportunities for Meg and Mog titles and skirting local planning by-laws in the construction of new and innovative golf courses. No, all of your Sputniks , "One small steps" and freeze dried ice cream was about one thing , and one thing only : MAD Now, I don't mean mad in terms of "bloke breaks record for number of scorpions he can get up his bum", no I mean MAD as in Mutual assured destruction . When I was a young man you see, there was a lot of talk about the type of m...

This will hurt me...

Search This Blog