I seem to have fallen behind rather - thanks for the lack of spoliers below!
I'd have to agree that Books Do Furnish A Room is a bit, well, nothing-y really. Although I think the two anecdotes offered as an explanation of the title are the ting that will stick with me from the sequence as a whole (so far at least).
I'm still getting the impression that Nick is floating through life: he doesn't have any really strong likes or dislikes, and no one really seems to feel strongly either way about him. Certainly it seems faintly ridiculous that anyone might have turned to him and said 'You make me really randy', which seems to be about as racy as the series gets.
For me the problem isn't so much I don't like the characters as they don't do interesting enough things. They're all so petty, even the monstrous ones like Magnus Donners.
Widmerpool and Pamela have kept me going quite frankly, there's something of the ring of truth about their marriage and they're both so awful at least there's a spark of character to them.
Am looking forward to number 12 if it's silly, thinking at least that might be better than the overall wishy-washyness of the main actors so far.
Tuesday 28 April 2009
Tuesday 14 April 2009
Grrr. Aaaargh.
To misquote Woody Allen, that's days of my life I'm never going to get back. So I'm not going to spend more days blogging about the wasted days, if you get my meaning....
I will say, though, that I actually liked the end of vol 11, even if it took me a few re-readings to work out what had actually happened. In fact, maybe it was *because* it took me several re-readings to work out what had happened. At least it made me *think*. And it had Moreland.
Having got to the end, I was somewhat disturbed to realise that I only liked four characters - Moreland, Matilda, Stringham (only at the end, mind) and Chips Lovell. I probably would have liked Pennistone if anything remotely interesting had been done with him; I also thought Gwatkin had a bizarre kind of dignity - and of course, as you will all be aware, I don't count Isobel as a character at all. I think it's fair to say that if you only like 4 characters out of a cast of 300, you're not going to find the book as a whole particularly enjoyable either, at least unless the unlikeable characters are masterpieces of delineation (which they're not).
One word, though, in support of Pamela Widmerpool. Thank God for her, frankly, because without her the last 3 volumes would have been pretty unbearable. She is a totally ridiculous character but paradoxically, I think she's the closest Powell gets to painting a fascinating monster with enough of a vulnerable underbelly to pull you in. He just tips it a bit too far. For me, Widmerpool himself just doesn't work at all in the last 3 volumes.
Finally, insofar as it is even remotely positive, what is written above applies only to vols 10 and 11. Volume 12 is honestly the silliest thing I have ever read. And I speak as one who has read all of the early works of Jeffery Archer.
I will say, though, that I actually liked the end of vol 11, even if it took me a few re-readings to work out what had actually happened. In fact, maybe it was *because* it took me several re-readings to work out what had happened. At least it made me *think*. And it had Moreland.
Having got to the end, I was somewhat disturbed to realise that I only liked four characters - Moreland, Matilda, Stringham (only at the end, mind) and Chips Lovell. I probably would have liked Pennistone if anything remotely interesting had been done with him; I also thought Gwatkin had a bizarre kind of dignity - and of course, as you will all be aware, I don't count Isobel as a character at all. I think it's fair to say that if you only like 4 characters out of a cast of 300, you're not going to find the book as a whole particularly enjoyable either, at least unless the unlikeable characters are masterpieces of delineation (which they're not).
One word, though, in support of Pamela Widmerpool. Thank God for her, frankly, because without her the last 3 volumes would have been pretty unbearable. She is a totally ridiculous character but paradoxically, I think she's the closest Powell gets to painting a fascinating monster with enough of a vulnerable underbelly to pull you in. He just tips it a bit too far. For me, Widmerpool himself just doesn't work at all in the last 3 volumes.
Finally, insofar as it is even remotely positive, what is written above applies only to vols 10 and 11. Volume 12 is honestly the silliest thing I have ever read. And I speak as one who has read all of the early works of Jeffery Archer.
It's just not that good, is it?
We're done. A & I both read vols 10-12 in Brazil. As warned, vol 12 is rubbish. 10 & 11 are harder to describe: they're not without amusing moments - in fact they are a lot less serious than the preceding nine. Equally, there are some well drawn characters, old and new (needed after the cull in the war). That said though, it continues to lack depth, coherence and, well, point.
Take Books... for example, it's all a bit random: a few new people; some old characters and cameos. Nothing happens, and in a really inconsequential way. If they were diaries, this would be interesting (up to a point) because it would be real. But it's not, and it just sort of meanders along in a not unpleasant way for 200 odd pages before we do it again.
Around this time last year, when we finished Proust there was a real sense of achievement, not because of it's claimed taut, fast-moving plot, but because the immersion in interior detail of its characters and the excellence of some of the writing (though I don't the final volumes worked) gave it weight, even in some of its more ridiculous moments. Powell fails to do this. We get glimpses of an interesting world, but we'd be better off reading the journals, and there are better novels.
Take Books... for example, it's all a bit random: a few new people; some old characters and cameos. Nothing happens, and in a really inconsequential way. If they were diaries, this would be interesting (up to a point) because it would be real. But it's not, and it just sort of meanders along in a not unpleasant way for 200 odd pages before we do it again.
Around this time last year, when we finished Proust there was a real sense of achievement, not because of it's claimed taut, fast-moving plot, but because the immersion in interior detail of its characters and the excellence of some of the writing (though I don't the final volumes worked) gave it weight, even in some of its more ridiculous moments. Powell fails to do this. We get glimpses of an interesting world, but we'd be better off reading the journals, and there are better novels.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
