What is "Metaliterature"? It is literature about literature, in this case, views, reviews, and thoughts provoked by stuff I've read. I'm hoping this might be a chronicle of the brain of a life-long reader as guided by intertextual coincidence. If you like what you read, read what I like.
Currently domiciled in the Vale of Glamorgan.
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The Bloodstone Papers by Glen Duncan
Chutney Mary amongst friends?
I can confirm that I have now completely caught up on Glen
Duncan’s backlist and can happily begin reading the werewolf trilogy (starting
with The Last Werewolf) when time and
tide allows – that’s the waxing and waning tide of my habitually meandering
attention. The Bloodstone Papers is
now safely under the belt and committed to the somewhat over capacity
bookshelves in the lounge.
I often feel that to talk about a favourite writer’s writing
(albeit metaliterally, if such an adjective exists) is somewhat disingenuous,
that it cannot always do justice to the effort, intelligence and craft of an
author. I may have used this somewhere before, but I vividly recall reading a
quote attributed to Dylan Thomas but which I can no longer find and therefore
verify, where he likens the putting onto paper of an idea to the catching of a
large and terrible fish, which once landed following Herculean effort must
necessarily end up lifeless. This tends to encapsulate the anxiety I feel when
I consider reviewing a book by an author for whom I have the utmost respect and
awe, a category reserved for writers such as Glen Duncan. Reviews of these
works must necessarily lack the adequacy to truthfully represent what the author
and book itself could mean, and from experience, end up being rather fitfully
relevant or overly obsequious. How is this pertinent? Let me explain.
The Bloodstone Papers
is a book which I had shunned on the assumption that I didn't care about
colonial history, this being the presumed context of the novel from what I read
on its rather attractive cover. Despite it being ‘A Duncan’, I really didn't want
to read it if it was going to be a disappointment because of the subject
matter. Having begun to read despite my objections, and having found that
instead it entwined two timelines, that of “real-time” London-based son/author/teacher/Anglo-Indian
Owen Monroe and 1940s India-based parents/Anglo-Indians Ross and Katie Monroe
to create a passionate and beguiling narrative with a bloodstone ring at its
fulcrum and very little real history
to cloud the issue, I was beset by the predictable anxiety of reviewing
something of which I was absolutely enamoured.
What a self-important chump – you might say – get on with
the good stuff!
It began, I felt, and sorry for the weak simile, a bit like
a new and improved version of an earlier work, Hope, with a narrator beset by
his own demons, self-awareness a lifestyle he chooses rather than an awakening
in the truer sense and therefore only a glossy veneer instead of a deep
foundation – something Pasha Ross Monroe touches on towards the end in
conversation with gay house mate (of son Owen) Vince – and all sorts of hints at
darkness – the ubiquitous Scarlet / Hope figure – in the background. Quickly
ushered in is the central premise of the book, a collation of the life stories
of his parents into capital-T-The capital-B-Book, a publication more likely destined
for the shredder than the bookshelves and vying for attention with a much more
often visited dossier on capital-T-The capital-L-Lost capital-L-Love (my
capitals, not his) and we’re back to Scarlet again. There are eddying sub plots,
twists of moral reticence and rectitude, garnished heavily but appropriately
with Duncan’s sad yet joyful wisdom, apposite remarks on time and life and middle
class guilt and pretty much everything else. And as always, Duncan has so much
time for love and sex that one wonders where the space was for all of the other
amazing stuff he manages to smuggle between covers. On reflection, post-read,
it left the indelible impression of a book about loss – of meaning, of identity
or cultural purpose* and as always, ends near to where it begins, in this case with
our narrator considering the start, middle and ending of The Book.
*The condition Stefan Zweig laments in his autobiography Die Welt von
Gestern (The World of
Yesterday) – namely of being in his case European but essentially stateless
and therefore lacking a sense of cultural self. Of course, Zweig went on to
kill himself and his wife in their last-visited refuge of Petrópolis,
Brazil, whereas I can’t honestly see Duncan following suit, no matter how
strong his personal beliefs. And I'm sure Duncan would choose something more
exciting than barbiturates to do it too.
Many (many) years ago, when I first read War With The Newts, after scouring the Waterstones' internal database (whimsically named Ibid, and from which one could print the details of books onto the till roll in light- and so it seems, time-sensitive purple ink which, on the inches thick ream of leaves I printed for future perusal, faded within a few months rendering my catalogued wish list so much locker mulch) for authors with a suitably Czech-sounding name, having put away an entrée of my first slim Hrabal, a palate-cleansing Kundera and in need of a meaty Moravian main course, I think I might have completely and totally missed just how funny it was, bloated as I was by the doughy and Victorian-sounding translation and the rather unlikely ideation of the future political terroir of mankind and their unusual amphibian slaves and, latterly, sappers, the newts.
How's that for a sentence David Foster Wallace? INTERROBANG.
Well, there's no chance that Čapek's typically Czech…
Trav is back, still grieving the loss of some chickadee or other whose death almost knocked him off his game, but not too shook up to set himself up with a few more lucky lovelies whilst tripping his way through another overly complicated and rather sordidly underwhelming plot. This time, some bikers are making dirty movies with minors on the set of a future classic hot-air-balloon movie. Travis falls into the action because a rich old geyser carks it in unusual circumstances and it affects the trust fund of a former marina-mate. And hirsute intellectual Meyer wets his pants towards the end.
You may sense a fatigued, sardonic note in my precis. It's not that I don't still love John D., it's just that after embarking on the long game that is reading the entire Travis McGee oeuvre, I'm approaching the end and it feels long overdue. It's been fun, it's been enlightening, but it's also been a schlep. With the realisation I might now have fewer years left to me …
If there was a comfort-food version of a book for me, then this would be it. It's funny, touching, humanistic, and features so many quotable quotes that its trim 120 pages could be represented in its entirety on some such authors' quotations page.
We're introduced to Tiny on the occasion of his mother's death, lured into a treacherously fatal situation by, of all things, a duck, while her 4-year-old son sleeps in the car where he wakes to a terrifying solitude. Meanwhile, we're treated to a potted but entertaining history of Granddaddy Jake, Tiny's grandfather, into whose care by fair means or foul (no pun intended) he is finally placed. But the titular Fup duck comes along only once Tiny is fully grown (and how!). A lost and lonely duckling, much like Tiny, she's discovered shivering in a freshly dug post hole, which betrays the attention paid to it by Tiny's nemesis, a wild hog called Lockjaw, who enjoys tearing up Tiny's fences just as much as he …