As usual, everyone else is doing it, and noone asked us. Which is fine, because we couldn’t possibly pick a winner – plus we only read about three books this year that weren’t published by friends. So. Here’s an informal, unordered list of books we read in the last few months, that we enjoyed, that didn’t make it into these pages but that we’d recommend, and, in some cases, why:
Samuel Delany’s The Mad Man (1994) was conceived as a grand Fuck You to apologetic novels about the gay experience in the age of AIDS: as the protagonist John Marr researches deeper into the life of a former professor, he finds himself increasingly drawn towards his mentor’s sexual practices, which seem to have been assiduously erased from the impressions gathered from even his closest friends. The book sets out to catalogue, Sade-style, the most extreme excesses of dirty sex – sex with homeless men, foot fetishism, piss sex, shit sex – and to find in them as much validation and humanity as any other sexuality. Delany’s prose is frequently disturbing to the point of nauseousness, even for hardened readers such as us, but his genius is never in doubt. Must read more Delany: a new book, Dark Reflections – his first full-length novel since Mad Man – is due next year.
Earlier in the year, I read two novels by Peter Handke, Across (1983) and Absence (1987). This was prompted by the repeated entreaties of Steve at This Space and Mark at RSB, who both claimed him as one of the unacclaimed and unfairly maligned greats. So. I wanted to like them, but they really got under my skin. There was something extraordinarily loveless about them – not just misanthropy, but a real self-hatred, and a kind of sexless passion. There’s also a terrible dichotomy of a writer who clearly hates modernity and its embodiment in America, but longs for wide-open spaces, grand vistas and a very American kind of freedom. I didn’t write about this then because I didn’t want to judge a prolific writer on the contents of two (oldish) novels – and they have stuck in my mind more strongly than much else I’ve read this year, so I expect I will return…
What to say about J-K Huysmans’ A Rebours (‘Against Nature’) except: tortoises, tortoises, tortoises. The STML family seat has a tortoise, named by the Grande Dame ‘Milly’, for the Millennium Dome, as it was acquired in the year of our Lord Blair, and is fed each day with live snails crushed by the matriarchal foot – a truly horrendous procedure. We also spent some time this year on the Twain-blessed isle of Mauritius, home to one of the finest specimens of Giant Tortu found upon the earth: a most magnificent specimen (more of this later). But nothing can compare to Huysmans':
The tortoise was the result of a fancy which had occurred to him shortly before leaving Paris. Looking one day at an Oriental carpet aglow with iridescent colours, and following with his eyes the silvery glints running across the weft of the wool, which was a combination of yellow and plum, he had thought what a good idea it would be to place on this carpet something that would move about and be dark enough to set off these glaming tints… Alas, there could be no doubt about it: the negro-brown tint, the raw Sienna hue of the shell, dimmed the sheen of the carpet instead of bringing out the colours… Des Esseintes accordingly decided to have his tortoise glazed with gold.
… Soon it struck him that this gigantic jewel was only half-finished and that it would not be really complete until it had been encrusted with precious stones… asparagus-green chrysobels, leek-green peridots, olive-green olivines – and these sprang from twigs of almandine and uvarovite of a purplish red, which threw out flashes of harsh, brilliant light like the scales of tarta that glitter on the insides of wine-casks.
And so on. You know the rest. Suffice to say that nothing enlivens a bus trip through Hackney more than tales of decadence, and Huysmans should be taught in schools, and downloaded to all the jewel-encrusted phones.
From one libertine to another: A. J. A. Symons’ The Quest for Corvo: An Experiment in Biography illuminated the life of Frederick Rolfe, the sometime Baron Corvo, in ways that couldn’t help but be reminiscent both of Delany passim and of the Alexander Maitland biography of Thesiger we’ve mentioned previously. Corvo was an enigmatic figure who published a number of experimental novels and biographical sketches in the early years of the twentieth century which are now largely unknown – through no fault of the writing. But it is Rolfe – or Corvo’s – life which has come down to us, a flurry of insane wanderings, incomplete, incomprehensible battles with publishers, newspaper attacks on rivals, pleas and threats to the Catholic church which denied him a priesthood, and paeans to his beloved Venice, which gave him refuge on the glittering lagoon which finally took his life. “Make a trip with Corvo,” reads the dedication in my copy, “and life will never be the same again.” Not wrong.
George Saunder’s Pastoralia and, for shame, David Sedaris’ Me Talk Pretty One Day have been our humours these long cold months: one read by part in baths from here to January, the other read aloud, stoned, in a cottage in Sussex – all funny books should be consumed like this. George Saunders’ tellings of an American hinterland entirely populated by low-wage actors enacting historical dioramas is especially brilliant: somewhere, in a valley in the great South-East, there are people living day to day in their Separate Areas, Thinking Positive / Saying Positive, and, when the crunch comes, pretending to catch and eat small bugs. In fact, when the time comes, and there’s no goat in the chute, they actually catch and eat small bugs. Not to be missed.
Luther Blissett’s Q kept us going for several days in a hammock: a rollicking read of surprising thud and blunder in the sixteenth century as the forces of the reformation and the counter-reformation rage across central Europe. Sure, you’ve probably all read it before, but we’d been meaning to for ages and the sheer horror, bloodshed and sacrifice carried us away. What’s wonderful about this book is the way that the contemporary politics of the authors shine through the devastation of the period: all utopias are immanent at all times, and need only the raised voice of the believer to be called forth, even if they end upon the wheel. Stewart Home puts it better, but, gottverdammt, this is good stuff.
And then there’s Trevor Paglen and A.C. Thompson’s Torture Taxi: On the Trail of the CIA’s Rendition Flights. There have been a wealth of political, American books in the last few years, promising to lay bare the full scale of the abuses we – and I do mean we – are heaping upon our fellow man in the name of terror, but few do so with the honesty and dedication that this little book offers. Paglen and Thompson are investigative journalists: two individuals who set out to trace, as best they can, the outlines of a plot they fully admit are beyond the ken of civilians, but which none of us can, in all good conscience, bear to ignore. So they interview plane spotters, aircraft controllers, and the women with big hair who man the empty desks of those who make beasts of us all.
Fair warning: skip this para if you’re queasy. Now. But in a room not far from here, men are having their penises slit with razor blades in your name; electrodes are being attached to wet flesh in order to extract ‘truths’ which are disowned as worthless the next day; human beings are being broken on new wheels to provide us with a hazy sense of security which we don’t trust anyway. There are monsters abroad, and if Paglen and Thompason’s badly xeroxed boarding passes and flight plans save one man from the Dark Prison of international obscurity, they’re going to heaven. Read more books.
Ach, we’re tired. But honourable mentions go to Gilbert Adair’s lyrical Love and Death on Long Island, which is more about a few square feet of Hampstead than we’d supposed, and kept conjuring visions of Ian McEwan panting over a box of kleenex; Conrad’s short stories in ‘Twixt Land and Sea, which painted Mauritius a darker and more heavy place than we found it (God it’s lovely, and so’s he, but diff’rently), and Boris Vian’s J’irai cracher sur vos tombes (‘I spit on your graves’) which we finally got around to reading, and which shocked and excited in the prescribed (and proscribed) measures.
We’ve read much more of course, and would like to have written more – two-thirds of the way through Alan Moore’s fantastic Lost Girls, for example, and haven’t even got started on our long-awaited Pynchon – but we’ll have to wait, and leave the rest to others. Catch us down the pub if you can. The New Year brings strange changes, and lots of work, but hey, we hope you’ve enjoyed yourselves, and hope to see you back here soon, or soonest, or whenever you can drag yourselves away. Merry Saturnalia – here’s to us.