The Sense of an Ending. Wow. Talk about a proper novel.
As I wrote in my previous post, I'd already seen the film about a year ago, which made me want to read the novel (also, it is a Man Booker winner). The story is about this old guy doddering through life, remembering his school days and a girlfriend he had during uni, while have an weirdly warm platonic relationship with his ex-wife and basically being ignored by his very pregnant daughter. During the course of the film, we discover that his memories aren't exactly honest, but you never find out whether he censured himself intentionally, or whether he was just forgetful.
The novel, on which the film is of course based, so I've been watching/reading the wrong way around, has basically the same plot, with the exception that it is written in chronological order (and his daughter has a husband and two kids, instead of doing the pregnant-soon-to-be-single-mom thing). The first part is about his school days, uni days, and the rest of his life until retirement, and the second part takes place during his old age, as he comes to terms with things. The fun thing about watching the film first is that you have a strong mental image of the characters; in my mind, the main character still was Jim Broadbent, talking in that high, whiny voice (I am a great fan of Jim Broadbent, by the way). The not-so-fun thing is that you already know the plot twist at the end. Although it still hit me, strangely. Maybe because the protagonist finally realises how much he has been deceiving himself ("You don't get it, but then you never did", as his former girlfriend keeps telling him), and how much his world has come undone around him, at which point the novel is suddenly all over and it feels like the blow to the head he must have felt coming to that realisation. Still having a reaction to a surprise ending you already know must be one of the characteristics of good literature.
Because that is what this novel is; proper literature. It is a novel you can pull out each year, read again, and still find new bits in it. I've taken pictures of several paragraphs, as I do with all great texts I want to remember later on. In these paragraphs, hidden between his other thoughts and actions, the main character muses on life, on the influence of the past on who we are, on memories, on character. All bits you can reread and spend the rest of the evening thinking about, or discussing with friends. A novel that makes you think, makes you reevaluate life, in only 163 pages.
Also, it isn't really about the plot, or about the ending. It is about a guy, thinking about life. Ironically, of course, the one thing he doesn't think about is himself, and the influence he has on other people (unless he tries to get them to do something for him). Which is exactly what he should be thinking about, but being the classic literary fool, he doesn't realise until it is too late. Too caught up in his own greatness, his own self image. He is a classic unreliable narrator, and having seen the film (in which you see other characters' reactions to him close up) I was prepared for this, but still you are swept along in his way of thinking, until somehow something doesn't quite fit, and you can see the strands of his stories come undone before he realises.
Read this novel, is all I can say. It will stay with you for a long time.
Wednesday 28 February 2018
Sunday 25 February 2018
The English Patient
I can remember when the film The English Patient came out. Somehow, the film posters were everywhere. I must have been about 11, looking at the release date, but it feels more like I was 16 or 17. It went on to swipe almost every Oscar there was in the 1997 Academy Awards, but somehow, I never watched it. It felt too sappy romantic, with those typical sepia tones and the 'star-crossed lovers' lay-out of the poster. Not my cup of tea, at the time (again, I'm thinking of the 16-17 year old me. The 11 year old me went to Titanic with all the girls in her class and tried to be emotionally involved to fit in with the group, all the while wondering why anyone would bother spending 3 hours watching this).
Anyway, fast forward to 2018, the day I was scrolling through the past list of Man Booker Prize winners and discovered The English Patient (the novel) was on it. This came from even earlier, 1992, when I was just 7 and way too young to know anything about any of this. But, since reading as many Man Booker Prize winning novels as possible is one of my life goals, I decided this would be the perfect chance to redeem this lovey-dovey story. For that is still what I thought it was. I had absolutely no idea what this novel was about, except that there is an English patient in WWII, which made me think of the hospital scenes in Atonement. As I was about to discover, this novel was nothing like Ian McEwan's work, it was unlike anything I'd ever read before.
From the first page, the poetical language, the beautiful imagery, and the interesting style got a hold of me. This is a novel that challenges its reader. In the first part, nobody has a name. There is a woman, and a man, and then another man, but you're never sure whose point of view you're in, or when there is dialogue going on (there are no quotation marks around direct speech). Then an extra character is added, and you have the complete mix of the just four characters the novel comprises: the English patient, Hana, Caravaggio, and Kip. So much to be said, of so few people.
They live together in this desolate Italian villa, which used to be a hospital for the Allied forces, but before that was used as a headquarters by the Germans. Of course, I knew they had a WWII in Italy, but you never realise what was actually going on there. Same for the deserts of North Africa, where the story takes us in flashbacks; you somehow never realise that was all part of it because most of the stories you read are about the Western front; life in Britain, France, The Netherlands, Germany itself. I've read children's books about the war in the Dutch Indies, and several novels about the war in Asia (The Narrow Road to the Deep North being the one I will never ever forget (and another Man Booker Prize winner)), but none about Italy, or the African campaigns. As this novel taught me, it was just as big of a mess over there.
Anyway, I won't say too much about the plot, partly because it's not all that straightforward (lots of flashbacks, many parts where you're unsure whether someone is talking, and if so, who, unexpected time jumps, etc). There is a sense of mystery about all the characters, and we do not really get to know any of them, even though the novel wants us to think we do. Some of them turn out to be actual historical figures, although Michael Ondaatje fictionalised the events (which some people didn't entirely get, if the Wikipedia page is to be believed). But it's not about these people. It's about the language of the novel, the way it flows, the way in paints images, the poetry of it.
And that is also the weak point. I loved the first part. Maybe because it was new, maybe because I was getting into the novel, but I really lost myself in the words and the ideas the novel wanted to portray. I thought; this is going to be one of those novels I finish in a weekend and think about for a month afterwards. But then it sagged. Somehow, the language was still beautiful, but it didn't grab me anymore. Maybe because I was used to it, maybe because the middle part of a novel is always the lesser bit (one hopes, a disappointing ending is the worst), but for a couple of weeks in the middle, I couldn't get through. Then the story got up to speed again, and I finished the last 50 pages in a mad reading rush usually accompanying better novels.
In the end, it is a deserved Man Booker winner. Not only because it let me experience a piece of the past I was vaguely aware of, but mostly because of the writing style and the characters. But it was not all that I had hoped when I started on that first chapter. Also, I am now very curious to see what they did with it in the film, as such a non-linear story must be hard to capture on film. Somehow, it feels like it can only disappoint, especially if it is the romantic drama my 16 year old self thought it to be.
Interestingly, I am now experiencing the exact opposite: I have already seen the film version of The Sense of an Ending, and am now reading the novel by Julian Barnes (another Man Booker Prize winner). Here, the novel is straightforward, while the film includes interesting flashbacks and time jumps. So far, the novel greatly outshines the film. I have a sneaky suspicion The English Patient will too.
Anyway, fast forward to 2018, the day I was scrolling through the past list of Man Booker Prize winners and discovered The English Patient (the novel) was on it. This came from even earlier, 1992, when I was just 7 and way too young to know anything about any of this. But, since reading as many Man Booker Prize winning novels as possible is one of my life goals, I decided this would be the perfect chance to redeem this lovey-dovey story. For that is still what I thought it was. I had absolutely no idea what this novel was about, except that there is an English patient in WWII, which made me think of the hospital scenes in Atonement. As I was about to discover, this novel was nothing like Ian McEwan's work, it was unlike anything I'd ever read before.
From the first page, the poetical language, the beautiful imagery, and the interesting style got a hold of me. This is a novel that challenges its reader. In the first part, nobody has a name. There is a woman, and a man, and then another man, but you're never sure whose point of view you're in, or when there is dialogue going on (there are no quotation marks around direct speech). Then an extra character is added, and you have the complete mix of the just four characters the novel comprises: the English patient, Hana, Caravaggio, and Kip. So much to be said, of so few people.
They live together in this desolate Italian villa, which used to be a hospital for the Allied forces, but before that was used as a headquarters by the Germans. Of course, I knew they had a WWII in Italy, but you never realise what was actually going on there. Same for the deserts of North Africa, where the story takes us in flashbacks; you somehow never realise that was all part of it because most of the stories you read are about the Western front; life in Britain, France, The Netherlands, Germany itself. I've read children's books about the war in the Dutch Indies, and several novels about the war in Asia (The Narrow Road to the Deep North being the one I will never ever forget (and another Man Booker Prize winner)), but none about Italy, or the African campaigns. As this novel taught me, it was just as big of a mess over there.
Anyway, I won't say too much about the plot, partly because it's not all that straightforward (lots of flashbacks, many parts where you're unsure whether someone is talking, and if so, who, unexpected time jumps, etc). There is a sense of mystery about all the characters, and we do not really get to know any of them, even though the novel wants us to think we do. Some of them turn out to be actual historical figures, although Michael Ondaatje fictionalised the events (which some people didn't entirely get, if the Wikipedia page is to be believed). But it's not about these people. It's about the language of the novel, the way it flows, the way in paints images, the poetry of it.
And that is also the weak point. I loved the first part. Maybe because it was new, maybe because I was getting into the novel, but I really lost myself in the words and the ideas the novel wanted to portray. I thought; this is going to be one of those novels I finish in a weekend and think about for a month afterwards. But then it sagged. Somehow, the language was still beautiful, but it didn't grab me anymore. Maybe because I was used to it, maybe because the middle part of a novel is always the lesser bit (one hopes, a disappointing ending is the worst), but for a couple of weeks in the middle, I couldn't get through. Then the story got up to speed again, and I finished the last 50 pages in a mad reading rush usually accompanying better novels.
In the end, it is a deserved Man Booker winner. Not only because it let me experience a piece of the past I was vaguely aware of, but mostly because of the writing style and the characters. But it was not all that I had hoped when I started on that first chapter. Also, I am now very curious to see what they did with it in the film, as such a non-linear story must be hard to capture on film. Somehow, it feels like it can only disappoint, especially if it is the romantic drama my 16 year old self thought it to be.
Interestingly, I am now experiencing the exact opposite: I have already seen the film version of The Sense of an Ending, and am now reading the novel by Julian Barnes (another Man Booker Prize winner). Here, the novel is straightforward, while the film includes interesting flashbacks and time jumps. So far, the novel greatly outshines the film. I have a sneaky suspicion The English Patient will too.
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