Righteo, my least favourite task when running a blog –
reviewing a work I didn’t like!! I’ve agonised over this one for a week now,
and have finally decided that I do need to post my thoughts as it is unfair on
potential readers/buyers of books if I only highlight the good ones. Having
said that, this is probably not a “bad” book, it is more a case of a book that
I didn’t enjoy. Only a short review this time, purely because I didn’t read
enough of the book to give it a full review.
Basically our novel is a series of vignettes, a diary by
Anton Mallick, who is writing to his great-great-great grandfather about
wanting to move out of the world of pessimism and become happy. Simple premise,
nice idea too, intermingle a diary with a few emails, a few book reviews, even
the occasional quote – great idea.
I’m writing this to cheer myself
up, because really all it was was an anecdote, and if life consisted of a
series of anecdotes, it would be cause for uncorking the bubbly, for getting
happily drunk, for laughing until you fall down.
This novel does contain a number of laughs, the concept of
somebody hating self-help books for their smugness, or scathingly reviewing
them for their content is a novel approach to a tale of a person suffering deep
depression.
NOTES ON BELA’S BOOKS
On the Happy Life and Consolations by Seneca (4-65 BC)
On the Happy Life and Consolations by Seneca (4-65 BC)
The Meditations by Marcus Aurelius
(121-180BC)
What a pleasure (and what a
disappointment) to read the Ancients. I owe my discovery of them to Bela (my
discovery, that is; their works are probably among the most well-read of all
time). Theirs is a moral philosophy, tackling personal issues and giving
advice, which makes them the precursors to monstrosities of self-help. But you
can hardly blame people for have degenerate descendants, generations down the
line – wouldn’t you say, Vidor? What happened to them? What are they all so
unhappy, why don’t they leave any margin for hope? Did they think too much? The
Epicurean, feigning playfulness, flees, shuts himself up in his comfortable
golden cage; the Stoic, proud, severe and resigned, tries to stay on his feet
as the blows reign down. Both of these are jaded men. Full of fear of feelings.
Fear of facing life as it really is. I don’t want to be Epicurus, nor Seneca,
not Marcus Aurelius, much as I admire them. They’re pessimists, the poor bastards, in
spite of doing everything humanely possible to mitigate our suffering and
achieve a state of quietude. I don’t want to die in life, Vidor. I want to
live, LIVE, to look, even if i don’t like everything i see. I want to fall in
love again, to care for someone, I want the cells in my body to leap for joy,
what do i know...to LIVE!! Is it so hard?
Despite the poor factual checking, Seneca was 4BC – 65AD and
Marcus Aurelius was 121 – 180 AD (or more specifically C.E) this is quite an
amusing reflection on the classics. My problem is the errors or poor language
throughout distracted me from actually enjoying our protagonists’ thoughts.
Another distraction was the, at times, diary style, where
Anton is writing to his long gone great-great-great grandfather and at other
times it was a reflection on his own life years ago – either he’s writing real
time or he’s not??? And the errors:
I was standing in line behind a
young woman wearing a tweed jacket. I stood very close to her, to try and make
her hurry up. I noticed she had all four Lethal Weapon DVD’s and thought how
oversubscribed this world is when it comes to intellectuals. When she’d paid
and was leaving the shop, just as I was handing my card to the girl at the
checkout counter, this woman turned around, called me by my name and said she
was going to have my baby.
Sixty six pages later:
You don’t find out you’re going
to be a father in a queue in a bookshop, from a stranger’s mouth. Or you
shouldn’t , at least.
DVD shop? Bookshop? Which one?
Apologies to Hispabooks, who kindly sent me a review copy of
this work, I only made it to page 157 and finally gave up in despair. I can
understand some who would like the self deprecating style, the sad refection on
humanity, however once we had the slapstick scene with a few drunken friends
pretending they are undercover police, I finally put it to one side. I wish the
publishers well with this work, purely because we do need more independent publishers
and we do need more exposure to works in translation.
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