Skip to main content

A 50 Book Year #1: Sweet Thursday

Like most relatively chaotic indiciduals who don't have a clue what they want out of life, I'm fond of setting myself an arbitrary challenge in a probably vain attempt to impose some order on my otherwise aimless existence. This year's is to get back in the habit of reading.

2017 was absolute mayhem for me, what with one thing and another, and my reading was pretty woeful (as was the writing), as I realised with horror when I came to do a few end of year lit quizzes and discovered that I was way off the pace (my crossword game has gone to shit, too). This needs rectifying, I thought, so, remembering a challenge last undertaken (and documented in these pages) before the birth of son #1 I set myself the task of getting through fifty books this year.

20 year old me would scoff at this meagre total. But 20 year old me was a useless chancer with far too much time on his hands, far less talent than he thought he had and a questionable attitude towards most things. These days I'm quite busy. But, crucially, maybe not quite AS busy as I was this time last year. I've also got a marginally better work ethic. 50 seems gettable, just. A book a week-ish, I reckon I can handle that.

And the first one's in the bank as of last night. Steinbeck's Sweet Thursday. The sequel to one of my all-time comfort reads (Cannery Row) it was an undemanding, pleasant enough start to the year. You'd have to have a heart of stone not to find it uplifting, though there's always a part of you which wonders at Steinbeck's propensity for making drunks and criminals likeable (a contemporary NYT reviewer noted that he "melted before the drunken bum"). I'll confess I find some aspects of it problematic, but I think those problems are products of the passage of time (the whole hooker with a heart of gold thing has been done to death, for example). The language can read overly theatrical, with the overall effect ebing of a thirties screwball comedy made paper, but it's giddily enjoyable for that. In the character of Suzy, Steinbeck has managed to create a heroine who doesn't quite act the way you'd expect and Doc, as in the first book is interestingly complex, and is given added layers here with his knowledge of his increasing irrelevance as he ages. The main criticism, as with Cannery row, is the exaltation of Mack and the Boys into heroic figures. These are men who think nothing of casual violence, theft, drunkenness but aw, heck, they ain't bad guys. This central conceit still sits a little uneasily with me, and requires a sizeable suspension of disbelief to properrly enjoy the book. But there is a tremendous amount to enjoy here. It's a vivid book, painted in primary colours, but with a stealthy subtlety to its themes of free will, predestination and how best to live one's life. The slang is perfectly understandable (amusingly, the old copy I picked up comes with a glossary) and whilst a character such as Old Jingleballicks is improbably monstrous, he does serve to drive the plot along and illustrate Doc's state of mind in one of the novel's more subtle episodes (as well as provide the possibility of a satisfying post-plot life for Doc and Suzy). A cheerfully riotous way to start the year off, and a splash of sunshine in a Dreich January.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Inedible

"He says it's inedible" said my front of house manager, as she laid the half-eaten fish and chips in front of me, and instantly I relaxed.  Clearly, I observed, it was edible to some degree. I comped it, because I can't be arsed arguing the toss, and I want to make my front of house's lives as simple as possible. The haddock had been delivered that morning. The fryers had been cleaned that morning. The batter had been made that morning (and it's very good batter, ask me nicely and I'll give you the recipe some time). The fish and chips was identical to the other 27 portions I'd sent out on that lunch service, all of which had come back more or less hoovered up, we have have a (justified, if I do say so myself) very good reputation for our chips. But it was, apparently, "inedible". When it comes to complaints, less is more. If you use a hyperbolic word like that, I'll switch off, you've marked yourself as a rube, a chump, I'm not g...

Chop chop

I was completely ignorant of the fuss over the edited Trump speech in an edition of Panorama until, one moment later, I wasn't. And the reasons for my ignorance are instructive. I had no idea that the story was even brewing until the surprise Sunday night news of the resignations of Tom Davie and Deborah Turness. As I'm sure you are by now aware, this was occasioned by a clumsy edit in an old edition of Panorama, which has already been on the iplayer for a year. It's a non-story. Except people decided to make it a story. The reason I'd heard nothing of it until the resignations was that I'm not on X, where, apparently, it was all the media classes had been talking about for a week. It was an obsession of the unholy right-wing trifecta of the Mail, Telegraph and Times (who, given that they sent a bloke just last week to interview the wrong Bill di Blasio, you'd think would wind their necks in over factual inacccuracy). It was big news on GB news, all self-contain...

Creepy old men

I note, somewhat wearily, that creepy old men are back in the news, being creepy. Creepy old men, and their apologists and enablers, who argue that their creepiness is somehow the natural order of things. Old men would have you believe that it is difficult to not be a creepy old man. That it is a task of epic proportions. It is not that difficult. It is a matter of intention. As yet more of the grimness of Epstein unfolds, creepy old men are, sadly, a flaccid topic once again. Whether it be pursuing students thirty years their junior, or simply not asking too many questions about the background of the probably legal young woman who you've just been introduced to by your good pal Jeff. To be clear, I am not referring to criminal creepy old men, the ones who actually committed statutory rape, the ones who fucked trafficked hirls. That is not something which is allowed to get away merely with the contempt of the observer.  That deserves prison.  No , I'm referring to the hinterla...