In the past I’ve been vaguely aware that the Booker Prize list was a good source of reading suggestions, and also that people gamble on it, which almost makes reading seem cool (obviously it’s not, if any kids are reading this you should probably be off learning to smoke instead). But this year is the first time I’ve had an informed opinion about the books that are up for the prize. Well, the ones on the short list, anyway: I’m not a particularly fast reader, but I happened to make lucky guesses when I decided to read some things from the long list. When the short list came out, getting through it seemed surprisingly achievable, thanks in part to all the shows I’ve been watching on Netflix settling into storylines that I found unwatchably depressing.
So hey! Let’s blog about it, since that’s something I’m trying to do more of:
- Though it’s not the quote-unquote best of these novels, I had the most fun reading The Sisters Brothers — man, do I ever love westerns. Reluctant killers! Lonesome dignity! It’s all great, and if you liked Deadwood or Blood Meridian or Unforgiven you’ll probably like this book, too.
- I think Snowdrops is being turned into a movie and I imagine it’ll be a pretty decent one, like The American or The Ghost Writer or any of those Graham Greene or Le Carre adaptations that sort of make you remember how great the Jason Bourne movies but also allow you to pat yourself on the back for being so much more sophisticated than all that (which compensates for how much less bored you’d be if you were watching Matt Damon beat the hell out of some guy in a customs office). The book itself felt a little thin, but since a lot of my friends are Russophiles I won’t hesitate to recommend it. This is one of the few on this list I own as a physical artifact, too, so if anyone’s interested in borrowing it they should let me know.
- The Sense of an Ending is beautifully written, but meditative and depressing. This book has got a lot of contemplating-a-life-lived-and-going-”meh”. Maybe that’s the kind of thing I’ll want to read when I’m contemplating my life (lived). But I sort of hope not, and it certainly isn’t the kind of thing I want to read today. Still, this is a undeniably masterful novella and if it wins I wouldn’t be surprised (having just checked the odds after writing the non-parenthetical part of this sentence, it seems no one else would be surprised, either).
- Jamrach’s Menagerie is the worst of the lot. It’s pretentious and melodramatic and hasn’t got much of a plan or a point. It did make me tear up at one point, but that’s because I’m a sentimental idiot. Also: it’s about a doomed sea voyage, not a menagerie, and only barely includes a guy named Jamrach. The author seems to think that Moby Dick was great, and you know what, she’s right. Read that instead. (Also: yes, yes, the actual titular menagerie is the motley collection of characters, or whatever. Bah.)
- Half-Blood Blues is very good, but the narrative voice was a little hard to take. The protagonist is supposed to be a world-weary Baltimore jazzman, and his conversational, dialect-filled means of speaking is how the story is related to the reader. But it’s a little strange to be constantly dropping pluralization and contractions, only to turn around and describe a waking bandmate’s eyelids as “fluttering like moths.” Do jazzmen speak this way? Maybe I’m being unfair to jazzmen, but I doubt it. For the record, I am completely on board with the idea that someone can speak in vernacular while still having a rich inner life. For instance: I sometimes say “y’all”, yet I still care deeply about composing rambling, grandiloquent humblebraggy blog posts about the novels I’ve read! But I feel like some separation needs to be maintained. Edugyan’s decision to allow vernacular into the narrator’s sometimes-ornate inner monologue didn’t ring true. On the other hand, this is a lovely book about jealousy and rivalry and friendship, and the action is set against the fascinating backdrop of the jazz scene of Berlin and Paris at the start of WWII. It’s a well-executed, graceful book, and if you aren’t bugged by the narration you’ll probably really like it.
- Speaking of narrative voice: I am kind of shocked that Pigeon English is not the favorite to win. The book’s success is an inspiring true story, and its content is a tragic true one, for one thing. It’s also just kind of amazingly good. The story is presented in the voice of its ten year-old protagonist, and the feat is pulled off perfectly. I have serendipitously gotten to know a kid that age over the last year; if I hadn’t, I’m not sure I would’ve believed how crazy and simple and wonderful PE makes their minds out to be. But that’s what they’re like! It’s probably torture to be around one for more than a couple of hours, but spending a few hundred pages in one’s head is a surprisingly rewarding experience. I think this is the only book of the six that’s going to stick with me, and I hope it wins.
Anyway, as you can see I’m toying with the idea of having opinions about novels instead of opinions about music, as I’m now super-old and it’s all just noise anyway (young people! so awful, right?). If you feel like joining me in this endeavor you should consider signing up for Goodreads, which is kind of a terrible site but seems like a useful way to subject yourself to social pressure to read more and better books. Kay alone has probably shamed me into reading an extra thousand pages this year.