The Wilt Alternative (Tom Sharpe): In an effort to take my mind off some
of the depressing consequences and realities of the current pandemic, I decided
to re-read one of the many Tom Sharpe books I possess (I bought this one in
April 1981, 39 years ago!). It’s the continuing sage of Henry Wilt, hen-pecked
husband, father of quads and Head of Liberal Studies at the local Tech. As with
all of Sharpe’s books, it’s outrageously un-politically correct and completely
farcical when it comes to a plot, BUT it’s absolutely hilarious… to say that
Sharpe has the ‘gift-of-the-gab’ would something of an understatement. Anyway,
it served its purpose… and I frequently found myself laughing out loud
(again!).
The Body (Bill Bryson): Bryson is brilliant. I absolutely love
his writing. In his book “A Short History of Nearly Everything”, he apparently
set off to explore the universe and the science of everything in it. Here,
according to the book jacket, “he turns his gaze inwards, to try to understand
the extraordinary contraption that is us”. Although married to a nurse and
having worked psychiatric hospital in the early 1970s (and despite his ten
honorary doctorates!), I’m sure he’d be the first to admit that he is no
medical expert… and yet, he has that amazing gift for explaining the most
difficult subjects in the clearest possible way (and with humour too!)… As you
finish reading the second paragraph of a chapter, for example, you’ll suddenly
find him writing: “your body made a million red blood cells since you started
reading this”! It’s a substantial work (of almost 400 pages), crammed full of
fascinating facts and illuminating stories (frequently highlighting amazing
researchers whose names have largely been forgotten). I found the best way of
reading this tome was to read a chapter a day (23 chapters, each focussing on
different parts of the body or on the immune system, on sleep… and the like). A
glorious, compulsive book… and one I’ll continue to dip into over future years.
The Glad Season (Ray Robinson): This is a cricket book from 1956. I
thought I’d given away all my cricket books but, clearly, this one slipped
through the net. I obviously acquired it at some second-hand bookshop or jumble
sale ages ago and never got around to reading it. So, I thought I would read it
now as acknowledgement of what SHOULD have been the start of the new cricket
season (but coronavirus intervened). It’s a book that focuses on young
cricketers. The subject matter is interesting - especially in retrospect, when
some of the players went on to become ‘famous’ (and others who didn’t) – BUT it’s really
APPALLING in terms of writing style (Robinson was an Australian cricket writer
1905-82)! This is just one example: Talking about Australian batsman Neil
Harvey, Robinson writes: “Hastily fixing his pads and gloves Neil hurried in,
trailing his bat, little knowing that with him went a silent prayer from his
anxious captain. With two balls of this cataclysmic over to survive, Neil said
to Miller in his crisp, light voice: ‘What’s going on out here? Let’s get stuck
into them, eh?’ He turned his back to the bowler while he scraped a block-mark
with his toe…”. I won’t bother continuing… it was all like this! No doubt he
had his admirers, but I’m certainly not one of them. Just awful. Simply awful.
The Virgin Suicides (Jeffrey
Eigenides): I’ve
been meaning to read this novel for some time. I knew the basic story – about
five young sisters (13-17 years old) from a Catholic family living in Michigan
in the 1970s who all, in the course of just over a year, commit suicide. I’m not
giving anything away by telling you this because the book’s very first
paragraph informs readers that’s what’s going to happen. Moira tells me that
we’ve seen the 1999 film of the book, but I only have a very vague memory of
this! It’s a haunting and compelling story which is both disturbing and
surprisingly funny at times (in a dark humour sort of way). The girls were
under the thumb of their tyrannical, disturbed mother, who never allowed them
to have dates and dressed them in ridiculously baggy clothes. Their father, a mild
high school maths teacher, was sympathetic but docile. It’s written in the first person
plural from the perspective of an anonymous group of teenage boys (who were
friends of the sisters, as far as that had been possible) – but recounted many
years later when most of them had married and had families. They struggle for
an explanation of the girls’ deaths… and continued to struggle over the years.
Imaginative, detailed and wonderfully-written.
The Gift (Lewis Hyde): I felt I needed to read this book.
Moira’s had it for quite a long time (but, interestingly didn’t finish it).
Essentially, it focuses on how the creative spirit transforms the world.
Margaret Atwood described it as “a masterpiece” and “classic study of gift-giving and its relationship to art”. It refers to the power of art to take us beyond
ourselves… and also a call to use the gifts we have been given. But it also tries
to address the issue of how a creative artist might be able to survive in a society
dominated by market exchange. Hyde himself is a poet and translator and so
perhaps it’s not surprising that he concentrates his thinking on the likes of
fellow writers/poets like Walt Whitman and Ezra Pound rather than, say, painters
or designers. It’s a highly intelligent book which deals with large philosophical issues and,
to be brutally honest, I just don’t think I am clever enough to appreciate it –
large swathes simply seemed to pass over my head! Sadly (or perhaps unsurprisingly), I
finished the book with a huge sense of relief.
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