A review. No, seriously. Just a proper review of something. Weird.
Let The Great World Spin, Colum McCann, 2009
Netherland, Joseph O’Neill, 2008
I have nothing against the Leaving Cert – as an exam, it gets you where you need to go. “Points make prizes”, as Bruce Forsyth used to say, and it’s still true. Leaving Cert Irish gets you into the NUI, where you can either forget the language or learn it properly; meanwhile the sciences will get you thinking a certain way, before you go on to study at third level where the first thing you learn is that there are no certainties or nailed down facts. This is even true for boring old accounting – in the real world, liabilities can be transformed into assets through the magic of securitization before you can say “total banking collapse.” What’s black is white; the world needs to be learned anew.
Leaving Cert English, however, seems to be all you need to be a hotshot post-9/11 novelist. That turgid, ploddingly descriptive language that we all employed to get through Paper 1 seems to be all a boy needs to make it big with the book club / reading group crowd on both sides of the Atlantic – clumpy, leaden prose and a depressingly Irish obsession with The Mammy. As in Let The Great World Spin, Book 1, Line 1; “One of the many things my brother, Corrigan, and I loved about our mother was that she was a fine musician.” Jaysus. Books cost money, otherwise there would have been no reading on from here, because this is just shit. Neither of these books is completely without merit, but the reading experience is similar – you have to plough on through gritted teeth, mindful of each error of style, pace and language. As a reader you’re left floundering in school essay-level prose with no trust left in the writer.
A cousin recommended Netherland to me, presumably because of the cricketing theme in it. It soon becomes apparent, however, that while O’Neill may have done some research and faced a few overs in his day, he knows bugger-all about cricket; as a result, he spends much of the book trying to name-check his way out of it. The hero is supposedly Dutch, but any amount of research doesn’t make him so. In my experience, Dutch people like to appear normal – you know, relaxed, tolerant and international – but invariably they’re none of the above. It’s obviously a stereotype to say that the Dutch are like the Germans but often try to hide it, that they’re anally-retentive, nationalistic, humourless and uptight – all this depends on the individual, and Hans has a right to be different. However there’s a core of Dutchness, a strangeness, that’s simply lacking from his character. In much the same way, he’s not a cricketer or even a sportsman.
Ultimately, this is a suspension of disbelief problem, and it’s only aggravated by sentences like this one describing the Hotel Chelsea: “Over half the rooms were occupied by long-term residents who by their furtiveness and ornamental diversity reminded me of the population of the aquarium I’d kept as a child, a murky tanks in which cheap fish hesitated in weeds and an artificial starfish made a firmament of the gravel.” Overladen, quickly followed by overblown. “Made a firmament”, for fuck’s sake! So much of this book is written in a quick-brown-fox-jumps-over-the-lazy-dog style that it doesn’t just reek of old exams, but there also seems to have been an allotted two-and-a-half hour period to write the thing.
McCann can at least write a character, and that does ultimately save his work. When you read books, though, you just want to hand over power of attorney to the writer and cruise through a new fictional reality with your feet up. Let The Great World Spin had me a nervous back-seat driver throughout, unhappy at having handed over the keys; when McCann described Philippe Petit’s preparations the night before his celebrated tightrope walk between the Twin Towers in 1974, I found myself screaming at the book for not describing how he got the wire across. Turned out this detail had been held back for effect, but the book hadn’t come close to me trusting it enough for this to work, and once again it had lost me to the grim company of indifferent sentences.
Both books seem to operate with the same formula; show a new side to New York, remain suspiciously upbeat about the city, and mention tragic events tangentially. South Park has skewered that brand of 9/11 mawkishness better than I ever can; however, as far as new takes on the city go, I prefer Joan Didion’s unrepentantly critical essay ‘Sentimental Journeys’ from the early 1990s. That portrays New York as a city that gorges on its own false myths to hide its racism, bureaucracy and uncompetitiveness. That wouldn’t get you any book group royalties, though.
I have nothing against the Leaving Cert – as an exam it gets you where you need to go. ‘Points make prizes’ as Bruce Forsyth used to say, and it’s still true. Leaving Cert Irish gets you into NUI where you can either forget the language or learn it properly; The sciences will get you thinking in a certain way, but the first thing you learn if you go on to study at third level is that there are no certainties, no nailed down facts. Even boring old accounting – in the real world liabilities can be transformed into assets through the magic of securitization before you can say ‘total banking collapse’. What’s black is white – the world needs to be learned anew.
Leaving Cert English, however, seems to be all you need to be a hotshot post-911 novelist. The most turgid, plodding descriptive language that we all employed to get through English 1 seems to be all a boy needs to make it big with the book club/reading group crowd on both sides of the atlantic – clumpy, leaden prose and a depressingly Irish obsession with the ‘Mammy’. Book 1, Line 1 from Let the Great World Spin: ‘One of the many things my brother, Corrigan, and I loved about our mother was that she was a fine musician.’ Jaysus. Books cost money, otherwise there would be no reading on from here, because this is just shit. Although neither book is totally without merit, the reading experience is similar – you have to plough on through gritted teeth, mindful of each error of style, pace and language. As a reader you’re left floundering in Leaving Cert level prose with no trust left in the writer.
A cousin recommended Netherland to me, presumably because of the cricketing theme in it, but it soon becomes apparent that while O’Neill has done some research and must have faced a few overs in his day, he knows bugger-all about cricket, and tries to name-check his way out. The hero is supposedly Dutch but any amount of research doesn’t make him so. In my experience, Dutch people like to appear normal, relaxed, tolerant, and international; but invariably they’re none of the above. This is a stereotype, of course, that the Dutch are like the Germans except they often try to hide it – anal retentive, nationalistic, humourless and uptight. All of this depends on the individual, sure, and Hans has the right to be different to that. But there’s a core of Dutchness, a strangeness, that his character simply doesn’t have, just like he’s not at heart a cricketer or even a sportsman. Ultimately this is a suspension of disbelief problem, aggrevated by sentences like this one describing the Hotel Chelsea: ‘Over half the rooms were occupied by long-term residents who by their furtiveness and ornamental diversity reminded me of the population of the aquarium I’d kept as a child, a murky tank in which cheap fish hesitated in weeds and an artificial starfish made a firmament of the gravel’. Overladen and then overblown – ‘made a firmament’? For fuck’s sake! So much of this book is written in this ‘quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog’ style that not only does it reek of old school exams, it also seems to have been written in two and a half hours flat.
For both books the formula seems to be: show a new side to NY, remain suspiciously upbeat about the city and mention tragic events tangentially. South Park describe that certain kind of 911 mawkishness better than I ever can – And as for a new take on the city, I prefer Joan Didion’s unrepentantly critical essay ‘Sentimental Journeys’ from the early 1990s – that NY is a city that gorges on it’s own false myths to hide its racism, bureaucracy and uncompetitiveness; but that wouldn’t get you any book group royalties.
McCann at least can write a character, and that ultimately saves his work. When you read books though, you want to just hand over power of attourney to the writer, put your feet up and cruise through a new fictional reality. Rather than hand over the keys in Let the Great World Spin, I was a nervous back seat driver throughout. When he described Philippe Petit’s preparations the night before his celebrated tightrope walk between the Twin Towers in 1974, I found myself screaming at the book for not describing how the wire got across. This detail was held back for effect, but once again he’d lost me, and I was left in the grim company of his indifferent sentences.
July 3rd, 2010 at 1:05 pm
Many thanks for the editing job.
As for O’Neill not knowing about cricket – the thing is, his character, Hans, from the clues we’re given, must be both brilliant and crap at the same time. Maybe he knows a lot about cricket, but he thinks his readers are dumb? Or simply cannot engage with details? Whatever it is it undermines his novel something horrible.