Wild Abandon

In Wild Abandon, Joe Dunthorne has created a community that every reader will start to feel a part of. In response to the recession of the early 1990s, married couple Freya and Don, along with a small group of friends, decided to form a self-sustaining, secular settlement in the Welsh countryside. Now, 30 years later, Blaen-y-llyn and its remaining inhabitants are being tested in new ways. The only other original residents are Janet, a successful jewellery designer who returns to the community for six months each year, and Patrick, who passes his time suspecting everyone of trying to get rid of him, loving Janet silently, and trying to get high.

Freya and Don’s two children, Kate and Albert, are confronting reality in their own way. Kate is finishing high school, and is compelled to leave the community in order to study for her final exams. Being a teenager at Blaen-y-llyn isn’t what you might expect: Kate is studious, responsible and emotionally mature. Delightfully, she finds the whole idea of taking drugs offensively boring, because that’s the kind of thing one’s parents do. Because Albert refuses to wash while Kate is away, he steadily acquires a layer of grime and filth. Albert takes little notice of this, because he is fully aware that the world is about to end. And when it does, he will be prepared. He and a chosen few will be ready. Meanwhile, Freya is becoming increasingly convinced that she no longer wants to be married to Don.

The title of the novel suggests the kind of hippy, unfocused, free-loving mayhem that the characters from outside the community are determined to believe in. Sure, there are only two mobile phones, which are never turned on, there is an Ad-Guard to prevent the children from seeing television advertisements, and there is even a geodesic dome. But in truth, this is a collective of people trying with varying levels of enthusiasm to stick to the values which led them to found it in the first place. For the most part, their weeks are carefully structured, with everyone required to do their fair share of work and look after everyone else. The title seems to hint at the manner in which the community is now starting to be abandoned.

‘Albert was hopping from foot to foot now. The phone was his domain, his contact with the outside, and he defended it fiercely. He could often be seen sprinting across the yard in his socks, skidding into the hallway, grabbing the newel post to alter his trajectory – skating the tiles – then plucking the handset from its cradle, hardly out of breath as he delivered one of his lines: Good morning, Blaen-y-llyn, if you speak to one of us, you speak to us all. Or sometimes just breathing heavily down the line.’

This is a warm, funny novel, and most of all, it is an inclusive novel to be enjoyed. Not many of us will ever live in precisely this type of community, but all readers of Wild Abandon will be able to picture themselves joining in its activities.

Hard Times (For These Times)

Surely there can be no author with a more extensive catalogue of eccentric characters than Charles Dickens? One day, someone with plenty of time and a commensurate amount of motivation, will probably figure out exactly how many (fictional) train carriages these individuals would fill, if they could all be gathered together and made to sit in the carriages. This is pretty unlikely given how noisy, fussy and unaccommodating many of them are. The characters of Hard Times are no exception. As usual, Dickens lines them up and introduces them thoroughly before they have a chance to do very much. His knack for presenting us with a precise summary of each new person as soon as they appear means that we always have a good sense of what we are in for.

Meet Thomas Gradgrind and Josiah Bounderby of Coketown (and note the suggestive names). Gradgrind, the headmaster of the local school, has lived his life according to his personal philosophy: Facts are the only things you will ever need to get by in life. He has raised his children, particularly the elder two Louisa and Tom, according to this principle. Mr Bounderby, Coketown’s Banker and major manufacturer, will not stop prattling on about his miserable childhood in the gutter and subsequent rise therefrom. Gradgrind’s approach to education and parenting suit Bounderby perfectly; mainly because he has designs on young Louisa.

Louisa — who has been taught never to wonder, fancy or imagine anything at all — when offered Bounderby’s hand in marriage has no words in which to express the reservations of her heart. Hard Times is one answer to the question: why read? Why concern yourself with anything other than what is immediately in front of you, scientifically provable and susceptible to measurement? According to Dickens, it is because the alternative does not bear thinking about, especially in difficult economic times. Naturally, however, you will need to read the book to fully appreciate what that alternative may be.

This is one of his more straightforward novels, much shorter than some of the others, and a very enjoyable one, even if the dialogue is a little overdone in parts. ‘In conthequenth of my being before the public, and going about tho much, you thee, there mutht be a number of dogth acquainted with me, Thquire, that I don’t know!’ It is an excellent novel with which to celebrate the upcoming bicentenary of its author's birth, 7 February 2012.

The Marriage Plot

Eugenides’ readers have come to expect certain things. First, evidence of his preoccupation with the lives of young people. In this novel he may have shifted his focus from the troubled teenagers of The Virgin Suicides and Middlesex to university age adults, but he has really only added a few years. Nobody could blame him for this; young people have such vivid experiences! Second, his intricate workmanship. Each novel seems familiar and authentic because the characters are imagined into their existence completely whole. They speak with voices that ring out in the mind. Third, there is his distinctive generosity towards those characters. He likes people, and we can tell. Yes, these individuals are flawed, and convincingly so, but he shows us how and why we should forgive them. Finally, his latest novel is as unpredictable as the first two. Every time we feel that we know where we are headed, we are proven wrong. Reading a Eugenides novel is like walking down your very own stairs with a large box in your arms. You’re sure you know how many steps there are, and then you reach confidently for the ground only to plunge through the air, in search of the step you didn’t anticipate.

Taking university life in the 1980s as his starting point, and that of English student Madeleine Hanna in particular, Eugenides indulges book lovers from the first page. Madeleine, resistant to the literary theories of the time, persists in her study of Victorian novels, generally flouting such things as deconstruction and the demise of the author. As soon as we are introduced to rivals Leonard Bankhead and Mitchell Grammaticus, the question seems to be: which one of them will marry Madeleine? Mitchell, the intelligent and serious religious studies student favoured by Madeleine’s parents, or Leonard, a brilliant and popular scientist, who is burdened with worries he can’t share?

With graduation behind them, this trio is forced to confront a recession and the lack of structure imposed by life without regular classes. ‘While he wrote, he felt, for the first time, as though he weren’t in school anymore. He wasn’t answering questions to get a grade on a test. He was trying to diagnose the predicament he felt himself to be in. And not just his predicament, either, but that of everyone he knew.’ The novel circles around to give us glimpses from their three different perspectives. In doing so, it makes demands of each of them, setting traps to test their strength. What must a person be prepared to sacrifice for a relationship? Can we ever live up to our ideals, whether religious or romantic? What may we legitimately expect from a person we love? While the scholars are busy ‘revising’ the novels of the 19^th century, Madeleine, Leonard and Mitchell unknowingly begin to act out their own version of the marriage plot.

The Marriage Plot is a sophisticated exploration of the stories we tell ourselves (such as ‘I’m destined to marry Madeleine’; or ‘I’m in love, he loves me, everything will turn out fine’; or ‘This is all my parents’ fault’) and directly acknowledges our complicated relationship with the books we read. Books are comforting, inspiring and informative. But they can be misleading and are necessarily incomplete, especially when it comes to love. In case you are at all inclined to dismiss this particular book with suspicions about it being ‘too highbrow’, consider that while there are certainly plenty of references to Barthes and Derrida, the children’s book Madeline also features. Just wait and see! You will not be disappointed.

Les Misérables

If you start soon, you will be able to finish this novel (it’s 1194 pages long in the Vintage Classics edition) in time for the release of Tom Hooper’s forthcoming film adaptation. This new film itself is said to be an adaptation of the musical, so if you want the whole picture, you really do need to read the novel.

What will quickly become apparent is that this book is not content with being a mere narrative. It insists on expanding upwards and outwards, away from the plot, taking in a vast emotional and geographical landscape, and a few decades of French history. It challenges the notion that historical context is not part of the story. It resists the idea that there is such a thing as an inconsequential detail.

The temptation is there to skip portions of the text, and this is made easier by the very clear separations between the plot and each of the discursions, which are neatly contained in their own chapters. These tangential commentaries on diverse topics from the Battle of Waterloo to the history of Parisian sewers are, however, vital to Victor Hugo’s purpose in telling this story. They must be read. Unfortunately they have a habit of appearing just as the plot is becoming interesting.

‘The book that the reader has before his eyes at this moment, is, from one end to the other, as a whole and in its every detail, whatever its irregularities, its exceptions or shortcomings, a step from bad to good, from the unjust to the just, from the false to the true, from night to day, from appetite to awareness, from rottenness to life; from bestiality to duty, from hell to heaven, from nothingness to God. Starting point: matter; end point: soul.’

The plot itself is terrific, if not a bit implausible. The relatively small group of central characters are drawn to each other like dancers of a madrigal, ceaselessly stepping towards, circling around and away from one another. Coincidences are freakishly common, but a skerrick of believability is restored by ensuring that in some instances, the dancers fail to recognise one another. In such a long novel, the regular reappearance of familiar names cannot fail to reassure.

Ultimately, it is clear that a realistic plot was not the goal. At the heart of the novel is concern for those who are frequently ignored — the people we might today call the 99% — including orphans, the elderly, the destitute and criminals. Les Misérables is a frank plea for more care for these members of society, for greater access to education, and for the equitable distribution of wealth. The central contest between escaped convict Jean Valjean (who represents justice) and Inspector Javert (the embodiment of the law) demonstrated for Hugo the important difference between the application of the laws of men, and the laws of God.

‘Of course, they seemed utterly depraved, utterly corrupt, utterly vile, utterly odious even, but they are rare, those who have fallen without being damaged on the way down; besides, there is a point where the unfortunate and the ignominious mingle and fuse, poor bastards, in a single word, a deadly word, outcasts, les misérables, and whose fault is that? And then again, shouldn’t charity be greater, the deeper the fall into the darkness?’

Freedom

‘People came to this country for either money or freedom. If you don’t have money, you cling to your freedoms all the more angrily … You may be poor, but the one thing nobody can take away from you is the freedom to fuck up your life whatever way you want to.’

Since Freedom has been called the literary sensation of 2010, it is tempting to try to find some fault in it. Unfortunately, even the typographical errors that accidentally slipped into the early print runs of this novel do very little to detract from its cleverness. Those who purchased one of these copies (a large number of which have been pulped) may even be hopeful of selling it as a collector’s edition at some later point in time.

This novel is as unaffected, crisp and surprising as dry ice. It tells the suburban history of Walter and Patty Berglund and their children, Joey and Jessica (the ‘show horse’ and ‘work horse’ of the family respectively). Jessica is the least present in the novel, perhaps because she is the most restrained.

The Berglunds are free to pursue all kinds of desires and objectives, whether sexual, altruistic, educational, or financial. (It’s interesting to note as an aside that the Berglunds spend a fair bit of time living on Barrier Street. It is only when they move away that the novel really begins to explore the tensions between personal freedom and collective good.) This liberty is bound to lead to mistakes and conflict. Ultimately, it is a novel about our freedom to choose how to respond to crises, and our freedom to forgive.

The novel took Jonathan Franzen nine years to write, and the evidence of this careful application of skill and patience is in the distance he has created between the reader and the characters, without dulling the impact of this saga or introducing too much cynicism. If you have the opportunity, this is a splendid novel to read over the course of a single weekend, or perhaps a holiday break, because it rewards total immersion. There is much enjoyment to be had in waiting for the first appearance of the word freedom itself, and spotting it at regular intervals thereafter. To borrow one of Patty Berglund’s favoured expressions, this novel is ‘non-optional’.

The Commitments

— What’s that you’ve got there?

— The Commitments. Roddy Doyle.

— Any good?

— Brilliant.

— Care to expand on that?

— You can read it in 24 hours, easy. Mainly dialogue and onomatopoeic transcriptions of music …

— Onomato …

— That’s words which sound like …

— I know what it means!

— DUH DUH DUH DUH, BA DA DA DA …

— Okay, I get it, I get it! Anything else?

— It’s about a band. The hardest working band in Dublin, a working class band, for working class people. They’re on a mission to bring soul music to Dublin.

— What’s their message?

— Sex. Also politics. Mostly sex.

— Okay. Who are they?

— The main guy, the ideas man, is Jimmy Rabbitte. He auditions them and manages the band. Young guys, three girls. An old guy who plays the trumpet called Joey The Lips Fagan. Because he has a stage name, they all have to have stage names. But most of them have only just learned to play an instrument or sing.

— They’re novices.

— Exactly, which is why it’s so exciting. Optimistic. They think they can do anything, and they almost can. And it’s funny; really, really funny.

— Better than Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha?

— It’s a different kind of book. It doesn’t pound you in the guts and then steal your playlunch in quite the same way. But it does have soul.

— Lots of soul?

— Heaps of soul. Overflowing with soul.

— And this punctuation?

— Well, it’s not as if he’s French, is it? But he can get away with it.

This Is How

It is difficult but not impossible to claim M J Hyland as an Australian author. She doesn’t live here. She wasn’t born here. Only a small part of one of her novels takes place here. So those of us who would insist on calling her an Australian may need to rely on the fact that she spent part of her life here, and studied law and English at The University of Melbourne. This Is How is her third published novel, and like the first two, is written in the first person present tense and focuses on the life of a young person who is more than usually different from others.

In How the Light Gets In, Lou Connor, a teenage Australian exchange student, dreams of leaving the family with whom she has nothing in common, and finding acceptance in middle-class America. She sets out only to find herself living with a family whose apparent perfection lacks any real warmth. Lou cannot help rebelling against the stultifying parameters set by her host family the Hardings. However, while brilliantly written, the book is less convincing and less complete than the two that followed.

Carry Me Down, told from the perspective of 11-year-old John Egan, follows John on his quest to have his gifts as a human lie detector recognised in the Guinness Book of Records. When his family moves from the small Irish town of Gorey to Dublin it becomes clear that there are larger and more painful truths to be detected than John had ever realised. Hyland’s many great qualities as a writer (apart from her obvious knack for choosing wonderful titles) include her ability to convey the importance of young people’s concerns. Adult realities float into the consciousness of this excellent novel like sounds heard under water.

In This Is How, Patrick Oxtoby is a skilled mechanic who heads for a seaside town, a hundred miles from home, after being dumped by his fiancée. Lonely, awkward, anxious, and plagued by a difficult relationship with his father, Patrick sets about trying to start a new life, make new friends and meet new girls. To tell much more of the story would be to spoil it. Suffice to say, this book is capable of slicing into its reader with the deftness and facility of a very sharp knife. You won’t know what’s happening until it is too late. A modern Australian classic.

‘I got to thinking that Sarah had only been practising on me, getting her confidence in sex and romance and gathering up some extra nerve so she could move to another man. I got to thinking that I’d filled her full of hot pride, that she’d saved it up to use against me.

She said she was breaking up with me because I didn’t know how to express my emotions. Thing is, I didn’t have that many. As far as I was concerned, it was pretty simple. I was in love with her and I liked our life and we laughed a lot and it felt so good to be in bed with her and have her touching me. I liked what we had.’