Just as much of my reading in March was centred around Iris Murdoch, April was all about Brigid Brophy. I had given a paper at a conference a couple of years ago in which I considered her writing about sex in her 1962 novel Flesh, and now I had the opportunity to expand what I said (and firm it up) for a chapter in an academic book about Brophy.
This meant rereading Flesh, and going back to The Snow Ball, the 1964 novel that is the book of hers that I’ve read the most often – it gave the structural underpinning to my newest novel, The Lage Door. It also meant taking another look at Brophy’s non-fiction writing, both the brilliant, incisive journalism (collected in Don’t Never Forget, Baroque & Rolland the quasi-best-of Reads) and her frankly overwhelming standalone books, Black Ship to Hell and Prancing Novelist. It seems astonishing that, given the size of these books, that she managed to restrict or restrain herself when it came to fiction. Those novels are beautifully short. I have never tired of reading Brophy’s fiction, or at least the novels referred to above, and King of a Rainy Country. I urge them regularly on everyone I talk to about books, and don’t mind if it bores people.
Also read for the essay: The Country Girls, by Edna O’Brien, which I don’t think I’d ever read before. This was a delightful read, but it has already started to evaporate. Well, I read it quickly, and with half an eye on its use in my argument, but I’d happily carry on and read the other two books in the trilogy. I haven’t read any other O’Brien, although I saw her read from The Little Red Chairs a while back, which is also on my shelves, unopened.
I’ve also been reading some books from the Man Booker International Prize long- and short-list. I read the two story collections on the longlist – Samanta Schweblin’s Mouthful of Birds and Jokes for the Gunmen by Mazen Maarouf – ahead of talking on the podcast to accompany the announcement of the shortlist. Both interesting, though I’m less taken with Schweblin’s stories than the longer Fever Dream, though that I found less effective the longer it went on. Books in translation, and books from foreign countries – some of them – need more context than the bare translation can give us. There is no shame, I think, in saying this. It comes down the Rumsfeldism of known unknowns and unknown unknowns. Jokes for the Gunmen is domestic and absurdist, and I cannot know to what that extent that absurdism lies in my lack of understanding of life in Beirut, where Maarouf grew up, or to what extent it is coming across truly.
Having previously read (and adored) Annie Ernaux’s The Years and Olga Tokarczuk’s Drive Your Plow over the Bones of the Dead (which I didn’t), I also read Marion Poschmann’s The Pine Islands, translated by Jen Calleja. This is a quite wonderful novel, that I want to reread, more slowly. It is a poetic response, a European response, to traditional Japanese ideas of nature, death and permanence, in which a German academic flees home and his wife (who he is convinced, on the basis of a dream, has been unfaithful to him) to fly to Japan. He falls in with a suicidal young man and together they embark on a short, unlikely road trip, to explore whether Yosa should or should not kill himself, and where. Japan is where we (I, Poschmann’s Gilbert) locate our favourite paradoxes of modernity and classicism, ephemerality and permanence, and Poschmann plays with and against these brilliantly. It reminded me, for obvious reasons, of Jean-Philippe Toussaint’s ‘Marie’ novels, though Gilbert is a more comical creation, and less cool. But I loved it and what to read it again. I have now started The Remainder, by Alia Trabucco Zerán.
2019 was supposed to be the year of reading Proust. I have finished two volumes and the third sits by my bed, but my head is not ready for it yet. It may have to wait for summer.
As always, there have been short stories, including Mary Gaitskill’s Bad Behavior (now a Penguin Modern Classic), Tatyana Tolstaya (new to me) and David Means (not so). I’m not ready to write about these, I think. My brain is quite scattered at the moment. This month has seen the publication of my second novel, The Large Door, and I’ve just started writing something new, different and unexpected. And then there’s reading for my lecturing work. Possibly just now the strain of focusing on Murdoch, Brophy, my own writing and work has meant that I’m not able to fully dedicate myself to any book, no matter what it is.
Aetherial Worlds (Daunt), Instructions for a Funeral (Faber), Bad Behavior (Penguin) and The Pine Islands (Serpent’s Tail) come courtesy of the publishers. Thank you.