I haven’t been very hot on my reading this year – or perhaps I’ve been rather too hot (given the Unfortunate Incident in February that destroyed about half of my books, inter alia). However, from what I have read I can give you in no particular order a few recommendations and tell you one book to avoid.
Scooting around London on the Tube in the wake of the Inauspicious Thing in February, I managed to read all of Anthony King and Ivor Crewe‘s monumentally good The Blunders of Our Governments. I was introduced to this book by a friend who evangelised about it for some weeks; I borrowed a copy from another friend whom I was staying with (to replace the copy destroyed in the fire) and ate it in two days flat. London is very dull without ID, money and a door key. The book is a pretty harrowing read. It’s not something you should read if you want to be optimistic about the governance of the United Kingdom; at the same time I think it’s pretty much required reading if you’re in any way interested in how we run our society. The structure of the book is a little bit idiosyncratic and it’s a bit too long, but it benefits from its highly readable style and its encyclopaedic approach: cataloguing every single catastrophe in British policy-making in a roughly 20-year period since the poll tax and explaining why they happened doesn’t sound like a gripping read, but trust me on this.
I finally got around to reading Jane Austen‘s classic Pride and Prejudice in April, a novel I hadn’t expected to like at all. I expected a dull but worthy read, but in fact found myself cackling with laughter on public transport and close to tears at the climax. The thing Austen does particularly well is the sense of suspense, the time being built and built and built – you really notice just how long it takes for these relationships to be brought to completion, and how urgent it is for young women of this era to marry and marry early. The social commentary is all the more effective because it’s subtle, and more is said in the absences and conscious avoidances than in the fabulously witty dialogue. Again, if you haven’t read it, you’ll finish it much faster than you expected to and be a lot wiser for having given it a go. Elizabeth Bennet is also one of the most winsome protagonists I’ve ever read and I could spend days in her company. She’s great.
Speaking of wisdom, I couldn’t write a post like this without mentioning Adam Tooze‘s knock-out work The Deluge: The Great War and the Remaking of Global Order 1916-1931. It is not an easy read. Tooze is a talented writer, but the content – a dense economic history of the world with a particular eye on Europe, America and the Far East in the aftermath of the First World War – is not easy to distil into a volume as slim and portable as this. Why does it work? First, its detail is intimidating but never alienating: Tooze does not shy away from complexity but he is a skilful teacher who believes the reader is as intelligent as (but less educated than) he is, and he is a patient guide to a period which seems surprisingly alien for all its sharp cultural memory. Second, and this may be subjective and very personal, but Tooze resists the trend to write in anticipation of the future. Lesser writers would signpost everything with references to the horrors of 1939-45, but here they are only briefly and rarely alluded to. Hitler and Tojo are effectively bit parts, a genuine shock when most relatively popular history likes to treat the First as mere prologue for the Second. His theory is really grounded by this tight focus and studious refusal to hit narrative clichés. It’s gold and cheap as chips, so read it.
The fourth and final book I’d like to touch on is one which I’d counsel you to avoid: the winner of the 2016 Man Booker Prize, The Sellout by Paul Beatty. A dark satire of a black man responding to American police brutality and white-flight by instigating slavery and segregation (it makes sense in context), it was highly praised when it came out. I found it intensely frustrating. It seemed to have been written largely for shock value, and lets its joyous wallowing in all the sordid details of its narrative get somewhat in the way of its message to the point of confusion and self-indulgence. Beatty’s gift for description (particularly the sequence with the orange tree towards the end, which is beautifully realised – the reader can almost smell the sweet juice soaking into the pages) is not really well-used here. It’s a righteously angry book, but anger is quite boring unless disciplined (The Handmaid’s Tale and Animal Farm spring to mind). It bears comparison with another gallows-humour Booker winner, Aravind Adiga’s excellent The White Tiger from 2006. Adiga’s novel is a blistering condemnation of the new Indian economy and the path the country took since independence in 1947 but written with brio and panache and a wicked sense of humour; Beatty’s is tiresome and wears out its welcome rapidly, and is strikingly unfunny for a book laden with blurb quotes about the quality of its comedy. Not really worth your time. It’s no stinker, but it is quite annoying.
Happy New Year to everyone. Next year might see a better-resourced list and I’m always looking for recommendations.