Quite to my surprise, I discovered My Booky Wook was first published in 2007. This was when Russell Brand was very popular in England, but just before he became a true international star. Not that that matters – by thirty years of age had certainly accumulated enough life experience to fully justify this first memoir. He has his detractors in recent years, as any public figure does when they wade into politics. He writes how he speaks – grandiosely, insightfully and with a cavalier use of grammar; loving language and playfully subverting it at the same time. It falls apart somewhat in the final quarter, becoming repetitive and a bit rushed, but I do recommend it.
A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara is the novel of the moment. Many of my friends are either reading it or have just finished. I got my hands on a copy just before we left for New Zealand and Adam was aghast when he saw its size (“How are we going to fit that in the luggage??!”). I took his point, but I sensed it would be one of those ‘lose yourself’ novels, dynastic in scale. I was right – to a point. It follows the decades-long friendship of four characters living in New York City, specifically focusing on the life of one, Jude, and the time it takes to fully unravel the trauma of his early childhood.
*warning: minor spoilers
I’ve wondered what I would write about this novel as I’ve composed, and then abandoned, drafts of this post in my head. I think what I will do is list it as a text I admire deeply – Yanagihara understands the complexities of friendships, the tousling of expectations and egos throughout different life stages. They were brilliantly observed. However, there were other parts where I felt there were holes. The alternating POVS of the first third shift – deliberately – once we hear (mostly) from Jude’s. But once this happened I was left without a sense of really getting to know Malcolm at all, for example. Then, in the second half, when there is an interesting section relating to the JB’s hurtful actions, I was left wishing he’d played a bigger part in the tale.
Did I cry? Oh, yes. As much as I thought I would? No.
A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle is a book I borrowed for Keira, one of my casual ‘I’ll just leave it on her desk, and I’m sure she’ll pick it up right away because she trusts her mother’s taste’ suggestions. Did she read it? Of course not. So I did – I haven’t since I was her age. Eleven/twelve was a tricky reading age for me – I didn’t want a ‘kids book’ so I delved straight into adult fiction, virtually skipping young adult fiction. A Wrinkle in Time was one of the last ‘kids books’ I read. Lucky for me, really, because I remember loving it. I realise it’s reductive to consider a text only in light of the time in which it was published, but this read, knowing more about history, I was struck by the cold war influence. There is so much more to it, too: the classic quotes, the wonderful heroine Meg, the science references and most of all the function of the father character. Mr. Murry doesn’t ‘save’ the kids – they have to save themselves. As do we – who hasn’t faced their own, private ‘Black Thing’?
What are you reading this month?
