Plenty more course-related reading and writing awaits. But for now, the most recent book that has inspired the way I think about writing and literature is Alan Hollinghurst's 'The Stranger's Child'...
I'm not sure I agree with The Guardian's view that Hollinghurst has a 'strong, perhaps unassailable claim to be the best English novelist working today'. For me, that title is usually accompanied by a tingle of excitement, a gasp of delicious enjoyment at a phrase or sentence when reading. Hollinghurst certainly has some nice turns of phrases and poignant truths inherent in his words, but does not make me gasp with delight.
However what the novel does provide, is a fascinating ponderance on how literature reflects the society we live in, on how far we can ever trust narrators or narratives, on the ways in which the written word can become twisted and reinterpreted according to the age it lives in.
For me, art is escapism, fantasy. Gritty social realism was never my forte. But Hollinghurst has produced a book that manages to be fantastical, romantic and historical, yet reinforces the fact that there are necessary social projections inherent within all artistic works. Very clever.
Art is not to be trusted, Hollinghurst says. Yet art somehow, like 'The Stranger's Child' itself, still manages to tell us something truthful about the world we live in.
This is ultimately what, even in my most sentimental, fantasist and escapist work, I shall aim to achieve.
I always notice, when I’m reading a Hollinghurst novel, that, despite the fact that I’m reading with ultimate pleasure, enjoying every word, gripped by the characters and their lives, there will be a moment, about halfway through the book, when I reaIize that nothing much has happened yet...
ReplyDeleteThis certainly happened to me with The Stranger’s Child. It’s a glorious novel filled with the colour of the last century and characters I took away from the novel and thought about in my quiet moments. But I was waiting for a clear denouement - a twist, a shock...towards the end I was praying for it. But I should know by now, this is Hollinghurst; his is a comedy of manners, and as such he doesn’t go for big shocks. He has always reminded me of the 21C Jane Austin, writing with a fine brush (although I don’t know what Jane would have made of his subjects and themes; no doubt taken them in her booted stride). He rightly wins all the prizes, and now seems to be edging ahead of Ian McEwan in the ‘best British Novelist’ stakes. I do wish they’d stop doing that, as such things are all so subjective. ‘One of the best...’ would be sufficient for me.