Baby by Annaleese Jochems – 2017

BabyCynthia, 21 but looks younger, thinks her dreams have come true when she takes off with her dog, her beautiful yoga instructor and her Dad’s money.  She buys a boat called Baby to live on off shore from beautiful Paihia, and cuts all ties with her friends and relations – what could go wrong?

Well quite a lot, quite quickly; Baby is told from Cynthia’s point of view and Cynthia’s point of view is informed mainly from reality TV, YouTube and online sex sites.  She is an unreliable narrator of her own life – fantasising constantly and getting pouty and churlish when the real world doesn’t conform.  As well as Anahera, the fitness instructor, there are three other significant characters in the novel, but we have no idea really who they are and what they are thinking – Cynthia’s perception of things being so self-obsessed.

Baby is quite mundanely horrific – Anahera’s fitness weights roll around above their heads inside the boat – an ominous noise that becomes more so when Gordon anchors them so the threat is still there but silent.  Gordon is a man they pick up, or are picked up by, on a nearby island – is he German?, a fake?, known to Anahera?, a threat?  All we have to go on is Cynthia’s warping thoughts.  The boat becomes a claustrophobic container of Cynthia’s psyche – within which she tells us of Anahera’s comings and goings (she is always swimming away and back), their daily routines, their childish diet and the annoying intrusions of those they invite in – a young boy from a Paihia school, Gordon, a man who lives on a nearby boat.

Cynthia is also really an unknown – she is either extremely attractive or not and overweight. She might have been blond but the roots are showing.  She might have been to university but has been unemployed and living on her father’s money.  She also might never have been able to secure a job, not being able to convince potential employers of her trustworthiness, so has been unemployed and living on her father’s money. She is extremely modern in the worst way, abandoning what she says she loves for something else she says she loves, being emotionless and mercenary about online sex related sites, being more interested in the image of herself than the reality of others.

The psychological suspense in Baby arises from not knowing whether Cynthia’s fantasy is complete – is it all in Cynthia’s mind – or will her negative thoughts towards others be expressed as violent action?  It can go either way for quite some claustrophobic time.  You will have to read Baby to find out the answer!


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On a Bodgie Bike by David McGill – 2018

bodgie bike cover scan (1)Dan Delaney is back, but he’s not the earnest young lad who longed to be a detective who we first met in 1935, nor the more mature Dan we next met in Wellington in the mid-1940s. It is now 1955, and Dan is living back with his Dad in Auckland and working in the “choking confines” of a wool store, having given up on a brief stint at teaching when the liberal use of the strap reminded him too much of the Nazi atrocities he witnessed in a POW camp during WW2.  This Dan doesn’t want a bar of getting back into security work, and is turning into a cynical and prejudiced man of his times.

The New Zealand Dan now lives in is bleak: there is a generational divide with not much respect given either side, society is conservative and homophobic, most people are ugly, there is corruption in the Police Force, and politics are post-war weary, nervous of the ‘yellow peril’, and fraught with the baggage brought in by various immigrant groups.

Dan’s brother has scarpered to Australia, leaving his wife and two children behind. Dan grudgingly keeps in touch with Janet, with whom he had a pre-war one-night stand, and with her sons, Matt and Malcolm.  He quite likes Matt but he has no time for poor Malcolm, the overweight younger son, who is suffering under a depressed, drinking and therefore neglectful mother.

Matt is a bit of a larrikin, and he gets into all kinds of trouble when he agrees to help an idiot friend steal a Catholic monstrance, hoping to make money.  The monstrance, if genuine, is extremely valuable both monetarily and politically.  It hails from Croatia, and if it finds its way back there it could strengthen the rallying cry for revolt against Tito’s Communist rule.  Ante, the ‘brains’ behind the theft, is Dalmatian, as is his sister, Mira, who Matt has fallen crazily for after seeing her in a production of Romeo and Juliet, and after discovering teenage hormones and a vocabulary from the Bard to declare his love and feed his deliriums.

When the theft goes horribly wrong, and Mira and Ante’s uncle is killed and the monstrance goes missing, all parties – the Church, the Dalmatians, and Dan’s bête noire, Haas – who could be working for any number of foreign governments, the fall of Tito’s independent Communist regime being of benefit to both the left and right – all join the fray to capture Matt and find the treasure.  And Janet pleads with Dan to try and help her son.

On a bodgie bike is told at breakneck speed from the point of view of Matt as well as Dan, and is a gripping read full of fascinating history – it is also quite a distasteful read given how far social sensibilities have moved since the 1950s, and there are some very violent scenes.  The narrative is thick with 1950s slang and outlook, the only relief coming in the form of a couple who live out of the mainstream, and who help Matt and his mates when they are on the run.  The contrast between the kids’ own lives and Robbie and Wai’s is extreme, and the fact that Robbie and Wai “were no friends of the authorities”, reinforces the feeling that society is unstable and untrustworthy.

I thought On a bodgie bike was going to be a story of redemption – after all there is a lot of Catholicism and lost faith described.  But at the end, although the mystery has been resolved, there are still many unanswered questions and unresolved issues for Dan Delaney, for example his relationship with his brother and his nephew Malcolm, his guilt over Janet, his unhappiness with his work.  There is a glimmer of an improvement for Dan personally, albeit involving a Dalmatian Policewoman “just about young enough to be his daughter”, and some possibly transformative news about his own family situation.  On a bodgie bike is a good gripping read about a depressing post-war New Zealand, but I did miss the feisty idealistic Dan of old – maybe his story of redemption is in a future outing?


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The Cage by Lloyd Jones – 2018

TwoThe cage strangers arrive at a hotel in an unnamed and unplaced town.  They need help, but before providing help, the townsfolk want to know who they are and what has happened to them.  If the strangers can’t provide that information what are the townsfolk to do?

The cage is an extraordinarily intense metaphor for the dynamics of modern human communities: who belongs, who can join and what rights the community members have regarding their self-defence.  The strangers, who are initially given a room and food, become of concern when they cannot provide their names, place of origin, or nature of the disaster that has caused them to flee on foot and in rags.  They are invited to make a piece of art with wire to indicate that nature of their origins, and then that piece of art is copied and turned against them, turned into a cage, where they are trapped within their own otherness.  They are given nicknames (Doctor and Mole), but these are purely so the townsfolk can refer to each one – when there is only one, they are referred to as ‘the stranger’.

Throughout The cage, the strangers are likened to animals.  They become like exhibits in a zoo, they develop stereotypic movements in their cage, and they become defined by their excrement, the sight and smells the source of fun for scatalogically minded children.  They are also likened to domestic livestock, Doctor at one stage being compared to a thirsty cow, and they suffer the injuries and indignities of neglected domestic animals.  The other comparison frequently made is that they are seen as images or statues, inanimate things it is easy to look at and talk about with no compunction.  As the novel progresses plans are made for a stone memorial of the strangers’ tragedy, a monument that will replace the living beings that are an inconvenience to the smooth life of the town.

The narrator of the story is the nephew of the hotel owners, himself a ‘refugee’ who has been offered a home and from whom “some gratitude was expected”.  We also don’t learn his name, just his nickname, Sport. He also shares with the strangers our knowing about his toilet habits, he often makes his observations while visiting the loo.  Sport has memories of avoiding visits to his aunt and uncle when a child, not wanting to witness the ridiculing of his father, a school teacher who upset the community pattern by becoming a farmer.  Sport visits an aquarium and comments on the “the complete absence of interest by one creature in another”.  And that is how The cage sees our modern communities – a story is told of a boat trip where someone falls in the sea and the first call is for photos to be taken.

You would think that Sport, who has experienced entering a new community, to be sympathetic to the plight of the strangers, but, “With the strangers, I feel I am caught between looking at a crisis and wanting to solve it.”  A Trust is formed, and Sport is tasked with observation and reporting, he starts a ledger, he hides behind the rules laid down and decisions made by the Trust regarding the treatment of the strangers, and the responses to their requests.  Sport has sympathy, however “What is the point in sympathy that does not produce a change in circumstances?”, missing the point that he could make such a change.  But as his aunt reminds him, “You are not the strangers’ keeper”, a lovely pun on one in charge of lesser being and a protector or guardian of an equal.  In choosing this path of reporting within the confines of the Trust’s rules, Sport is also trapped, finding no way of reporting on the “strange new contortions of personality I find myself going through.”

The cage is set nowhere and everywhere, it is where school children sing Pōkarekare ana but also where they keep hamsters – so both hemispheres.  The Trust wants to know everything about the strangers and what happened to them, so they might know what steps to take to avoid it happening to them.  They put Sport in place to give them information much as we might watch the TV nightly, impassively watching the plight of refugees and those in war torn countries, calculating where any danger might be relevant to us.  When the wall for the memorial is being built, Sport looks out the window and sees a split screen, the strangers filthy in the mud on one side and his uncle playing tennis in tennis whites against the wall on the other.  With just a slight adjustment of our eyes, or the channel, the misery of others is gone.  Like Sport, we decide to see how ‘they’ will get on left to their own devices.

The strangers cannot tell of their experiences, and the Trust lays down rules that they in turn must not be informed – Sport gives them his nickname but they know no other names, or whether authorities have been informed, or when their incarceration will end.  The Trust does not even admit to incarceration, the strangers entered the cage (as a piece of sculpture) willingly, they won’t give their identities, so strictly speaking there is no-one detained.  As with the animals in the zoo that Sport frequently visits, “…there is a price to pay for not being local.”  In The cage communities can’t be sympathetic with people if they don’t know what has happened to them, but the comparisons between the strangers and the rough sleepers in the town suggest that sympathy can only really arises when the community-as-a-whole experiences a problem directly, just seeing it in their midst isn’t enough.  The haunted look of the strangers is put down to whatever they have experienced, not what they are experiencing.

What do we find out about the strangers?  They aren’t used to electric light, they are resilient when experiencing atrocious weather, they refuse to swap their clothes for new (seen as a refusal to assimilate), and give the reason as not wanting to dishonor those whose clothes they are – those who “in a moment of great misfortune had lost everything, all their possessions, in some cases even their skins”, they have nightmares of airborne dangers, and they are used to dealing with  those in authority.  And they are themselves sympathetic and conscientious, Doctor often offers to help the townsfolk (hence his nickname), he is courteous and polite, and at one point Mole ushers a child who has climbed onto the cage, to the safety of his father (reminiscent of Koola, the gorilla who carried an unconscious three year old boy to safety after he had fallen into Koola’s enclosure at Brooklyn Zoo).  But none of this makes the strangers into ‘one of the community’, even when Mole joins in to help the town in a crisis, he is not accepted as anything other than ‘other’.

The cage is a disturbing read – and sad to say, a totally transparent one, we know immediately what is being referred to, and how unjust and unfair communities can be.  It is a tale about what is demanded for what should be free: care and support.  The price for these is full disclosure, no space for healing, and a lack of privacy.  The price is those things that those who have lost everything might chose to hold onto – an observation once again from the zoo: “There is not much the ibex may keep to itself, except for what it is to be an ibex.”  Highly recommended.

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Into the World by Stephanie Parkyn – 2017

Into the worldInto the World is an historical adventure on the high seas with great characters and an interesting plot.  From the beginning of the novel, when Marie-Louise Girardin brands herself and her infant son before leaving him to the fate of an orphan and fleeing France, we are drawn into her story.  What could drive a woman to do such a thing?

Marie-Louise Girardin transforms into Louis Girardin and becomes a steward on the Recherche, one of two vessels under the command of The General, Admiral Bruni d’Entrecasteaux, who has been tasked by King Louis XVI to discover what happened to the La Perouse expedition to the South Pacific, whose ships have failed to return to France.  But it is 1791, and the revolution is in full swing – and the d’Entrecasteaux expedition has many inner conflicts – with both loyalists and revolutionaries on the Recherche and on her sister ship the Esperance.  Adding to the tension on board, are the arguments between those who see their priority as finding the remnants of the La Perouse expedition, those who see it as mapping coasts around Van Dieman’s Land and New Holland, and those naturalists on board who see it as discovering new plants and animals.

Marie-Louise, who has played a role in the revolution, treads a cautious path between the various opposing groups, managing to keep onside with everyone apart from the sinister Raoul, who seems to know more about ‘Louis’ than he should.  There are a number of potential romantic involvements on board, especially the Captain of the Esperance, Huon de Kermadec – Kermadec and The General are the only two on the expedition who know that Louis is really Marie-Louise.

The expedition travels for two years, visiting exotic ports, enduring perilous periods with little food and fresh water (many chapter headings are maritime location co-ordinates), and landing on some of the South Pacific islands.  The story flows well, and Marie-Louise’ back story is smoothly woven into the narrative.  There is a nice balance between the sensibilities of the time and the growing awareness of the injustices that underpin exploration and colonisation.  Marie-Louise has nice character development through the story, realising that revolutionary progress does not always mean a better deal for women, and finding an inner strength and resiliance which she didn’t know she had.  Although there are romantic elements to the story, there is a nice gritty realism to the outcomes of many of the storylines – not surprisingly, as it is based on a true story.  A good solid debut novel.


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Tinderbox by Megan Dunn – 2017

TinderboxA memoir, and a book about writing a book, about the future of books, about women in books, about a movie of a book, about selling books – Tinderbox is all of these and is wonderful!  Dunn takes us though her experiences of trying to write a novel (based on Fahrenheit 451: “a searing feminist rewrite of Bradbury’s classic”) while living through a marriage breakup, and her time working for the Borders book chain, both in the UK and in New Zealand, which in turn is going down the economic gurgler.

Tinderbox is funny and sad – Dunn is in the doldrums most of the time, waiting for her marriage to end, for her job to disappear, for her novel to complete itself, for the end of the world as we know it: “Bradbury was prescient but not quite so prescient as to predict global warming, recycling and the imminent extinction of the bumble bee.”  She takes a job at Borders thinking it will help her writing, but the mass production and marketing of merchandise has the opposite effect: “I know what temperature books burn at. Half price.”

Dunn is well aware how much of a literary snob she is – she is happy watching Big Brother and America’s Next Top Model on TV, but when it comes to books she rails against the flooding of the book market with “cheap banality” – at one point sitting on the loo “She sighed, there were so many books in the world.  Too many” and used a page of Picoult’s My Sister’s Keeper as toilet paper.  She has it in for poor Picoult: “Jodi writes books the way other people bake muffins.”

Tinderbox is full of references to heat and fire: Dunn describes her laptop as “my tinderbox”, after serving a customer: “Clearly the girl with the dragon tattoo was smoking”, “My anger erupted into flames” etc, etc.  Dunn must have been delighted that Amazon’s e-book reader is branded a Kindle!  And she puts the beginning of the literary apocalypse with the arrival of the Kindle: but the apocalypse isn’t the “easy to imagine you would resist” Bradbury book burning, it is “A future where books [are] mass marketed and turned into multi-million dollar films and merchandise.”

Writing to a NaNoWriMo word-count-per-day deadline, and under the threat of closure of the Borders stores, Dunn becomes obsessed with Truffaut’s movie version of Fahrenheit 451.  Truffaut was the proposer of the auteur theory of filmmaking – that the director is the author of the ‘work’ – and Dunn sympathises with the problems Truffaut encountered during the making of Fahrenheit 451, and also ponders his treatment of women characters, as she does Bradbury’s “The Mildred in my head just didn’t sound that stupid.”  She also thinks about the serendipity of creation – Truffaut not getting his ideal cast, Bradbury darting up to the stacks of the UCLA Library for random quotes, and Dunn trolling through websites and online fora for bits to put in her novel: “Anything to help my word count.”

The mass NaNoWriMo experience makes Dunn lazy, knowing she should be “providing unique salient details that would bring the world of my novel to life. Unfortunately I couldn’t be bothered.”  And Tinderbox has some pretty clunky puns in it, she almost longingly wonders if “Maybe in the future it was also illegal to write.”  And when copyright problems loom for her adaptation of Bradbury’s novel, she opts instead to tell the story of her attempts to write it – “‘Yes, it is a bit meta,’ I reached up and touched my face, cheek burning. Time for another apology. ‘That’s the last thing we need,’ I said.”

In Tinderbox, Dunn, as we all do, struggles a bit to find the positive – “Yet I like to think I stand for freedom of speech. At least I stand in line for it.”  At one point she admires a poem by Matthew Arnold, “The poem described the withdrawal of religious faith but I believed in the power of literature and the tide had gone out on that too.”  She applauds the flattening line on the sale of e-books “They are, after all, still a bit shit.”  And it was fitting that I read Tinderbox in a Kindle app – and it was a bit shit, with lots of typos and layout errors.  But I loved it, and don’t believe we have all been reduced to “… grazing the written word”.  Tinderbox may not have ended up “a searing feminist rewrite of Bradbury’s classic”, but it is a flaming good read!

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The Stakes by Ben Sanders – 2018

The Stakes“And it’s like: you know on kind of a formal level that there’s laws, but then when you’re actually on the street and see it through their eyes, you realise it’s just dog-eat-dog, same as everything else” – even the cops don’t have a clear line on right and wrong in Ben Sanders’ latest novel, The Stakes, and most of his characters are conflicted, confused and making their moves “So you feel the strange weight of the strange moment”.

Miles Keller is an NYPD detective currently under investigation for a shooting.  Keller has more at stake than the authorities finding out the shooting might not have been righteous; he has been ripping off bad guys for quite some time – since his wife left him over a brief affair with a confidential informant, Lucy Gates, who was also involved in the shooting.  And the victim of the shooting has a cousin, Bobby Deen.  Bobby is a failed actor who has ended up working for a crooked high-flyer Charles Stone, who launders his money through making movies.  Bobby usually makes sensible calls, but when Stone’s wife Nina sets out to rip off her husband and Bobby is sent to retrieve her, he starts getting brain fails when he is around the charismatic Nina.

Miles and Nina have a history – her latest heist not being her first – and Miles being the cop who helped her avoid going down for a previous outing.  When Nina catches a glimpse of Miles in New York, all the players are set on a collision course, with each having high stakes on the table – money, freedom, love, staying alive … Confused? … Well, you will be for most of this novel.  But just revel in the homage to Leonard’s narrative style; in enjoying the characters, who know how they’re coming across – “This would be a long exercise in deadpan, but it was hard sticking to a cool tempo, his heart rate up and his breath coming short”, and who often inwardly falter as they fail to come up with the final witty riposte.  The only character in The Stakes who isn’t at heart out to do ‘the right thing’, is Nina – she’s in it purely for the money: “… I’m always in charge … I’m just not used to people figuring it out”, but who she’s going to back to help her get the goods is an open question.

Sanders gets bits of Kiwiana into the story – Miles listens to his ex-wife’s audio-books, and Eleanor Catton’s The Luminaries is playing at one point; a ski mask in one of the heists is admired for being soft Merino; and illegal job coordinator, Wynn Stanton, recommends New Zealand as a tax haven where Miles can safeguard his money.  But the story is gloriously set in the New York of movies and TV crime shows – seemingly both foreign and completely familiar.  Sanders’ descriptions are often both amusing and evocative: “He climbed the shaking steps to their appointed Gulf-stream, into a cocoon of leather and that metal taste of bottled air, like a taste of the future – the morning-breath of androids”.  The Stakes is a wonderful trip into “Blood spatter and ballistics and all the moral angles of it”, ride it through to the end, where all the threads are laid out plain … sort of.  The novel starts and ends with guys thinking they’ve got things sorted, but also knowing the world doesn’t often deal a fair hand – and you always have to wonder what the women might be planning.  As Miles says to a guy he’s hi-jacked, and who is so quiet Miles wonder if he thinks he has already been killed: “That’d be strange wouldn’t it? Heaven and hell no different to where you were a moment ago.”

If you haven’t read Ben Sanders, do – he just gets better and better.

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The Necessary Angel by C.K. Stead – 2017

A group of people in Paris in 2014/15, all literary, all quite objectionable, meander roundThe necessary angel each other, aloof from events around them.

Max Jackson is a Kiwi, although I doubt he would ever describe himself as such – the thought of his pairing with a New Zealand wife is the source of some amusement to him and his French wife, Louise.  Louise has banished Max to the lower floor of their house, while she and the children stay aloft – not surprising really, given his tendency to mansplain to women, and ponder that a woman’s breasts “… must be the broadly rounded kind, not pointy”.  She keeps in touch though – prowling around his floor when he’s not there, sniffing his sheets.  What is surprising is that Sylvie, a new colleague of Max’s at the Sorbonne Nouvelle where he lectures, would be attracted to him – he is particularly condescending towards her, but then Sylvie rather prefers him when “he recovers some of his authority”, just as what she likes most about her German lover, Bertholdt, is his “SS manner”.

Then there is Helen White, a young English student at the Sorbonne Nouvelle, who read an early poem of Max’s (who has long since stopped writing poetry) and liked it immensely – and who arrives at his office to say she is bipolar and she is going to get him to start writing poetry again: “Where was the youthful Max’s soul hiding? She would make it her project to find it, to bring it out”.  And Max, whilst enamoured of colleague Sylvie, seems to think it is quite acceptable to engage in a relationship with a vulnerable student, “He entertained himself by thinking of her as a muse.”  At the end of one of his lectures he does a bit of a rave about Nabokov, so maybe he thinks he is being faithful to the ‘literast’ tradition.

All the characters in this novel are bright and erudite, and quip away to each other.  Both Max and Louise are working on books, his is a small volume of literary criticism, hers a volume on Flaubert, the latter volume being destined for greatness: Louise is trying to spark a renaissance of word crafting and sculpting in literature, and a move away from the New Wave of authors who favour obscurity, thus leaving the reader room for creativity.  And this crafting of material is probably what this novel is about – how people’s lives can become overly constructed and lack spontaneity and engagement.  Helen is a devotee of Gurdjieff, who believed that ordinary lives were a ‘sleep’ and that one had to work at ‘wakefulness’, creating a soul along the way.  Sylvie meets another man towards the end of the novel, Lenny, and sees him as a project: “She was going to have to train him, teach him how to dress stylishly but less formally, and to stop perfuming himself.”  All the characters are using each other in some way for their own ends.  At one point, the ‘necessary angel’ of the title is used to describe both Helen and Sylvie in relation to Max, but also to describe the drugs that Helen relies on: “‘I like to be brilliant,’ she said, ‘but it’s better to be sane’.”

For the characters in The necessary angel, their world has become so removed behind words that French and world politics are just a backdrop.  Max scans the Guardian Weekly and the New Zealand Herald, “reads the world telling its own story, getting on with the ‘now’ of everything …”, reads of the growing gap between rich and poor, the heightening unrest around the globe, but: ”Nothing-to-be-Done, alas!”  The book is set in turbulent political times, there are scandals in French politics, right ascendancy, the Ebola crisis, ISIS public beheadings and the Charlie Hebdo attacks.  Max is separated from his world not only by his choice of work and social circle, he feels himself apart from his French associates, an unbridgeable language gap arising from his having learned French from written not heard words.  At the beginning of the novel there is an odd unnecessary note about most of the conversations being in French – when it is made very clear throughout the novel whether the characters are speaking French or English.  But maybe this note is to emphasise this additional barrier to engagement for Max?

Max and Sylvie are working together organising a small conference on World War One writers, as part of the centennial commemorations.  But even with this there is a feeling of fatigue, even before commemorations begin: “Let’s not be tired in advance”, advises Sylvie.  By the end of the novel, Max is calling the Great War Wobbly Wobbly One.  Sylvie puts this ennui and apathy down to our knowledge of the ‘Death of Everything’, the forecast end of the universe that was not a concept for previous artists and philosophers.  “In this society at this time almost everything was waste – works of art, music, reading and talking about novels and poems, and, perhaps especially, opera. Everything we do, she thought, was at the expense of the future and the poor.”  We do fleetingly glimpse ‘the poor’ in this novel – in the form of an “old harridan”, to whom Max thrusts 20 Euros to keep her off his property.

Much of the writing in The necessary angel is lovely. But some is quite flat: Louise. “Maybe the cat was just a cat – the one that in English ‘sat on the mat’” or odd: “He said it as if preparing her for the worse that was not to come.” And sometimes I don’t think Stead has quite captured the female voice:

“Her period had come and it was better that she did not have to tell him she was pregnant, which might have upset him. Pregnancy would have been an interesting experience – she had quite liked the idea; but they said it hurt a lot giving birth; and after that you would be stuck with a baby, like a big, noisy doll, getting bigger all the time, and before long walking and talking and probably telling you off – and perhaps even falling into the canal. No, she would be more careful from now on. Fucks for sure, but with care and a condom.”

There is reference in the novel to the power of the written word, not just the ability to trouble the “Christian–atheist mind”, but an accidental and dangerous power – a line is drawn between Houellebecq’s Submission and the Charlie Hebdo attack, and Houellebecq is described as having ‘taken refuge somewhere in rural France” after the attacks.  But, despite the characters’ vast knowledge in The necessary angel, there is a vacuum of commitment on all fronts, e.g. when Sylvie is asked about her religion: “‘Oh yes, I’m Catholic’, she said. And then, ‘Regrettably’.”  There is a piece of art central to the story, interestingly having familial not official proof of provenance, and the fate of this work, purposely kept private and not for public display, is how the novel ends.  It is a clever ending and oddly satisfying, but is of the ‘obscure, leaving the reader room for creativity’ type.  As a reader, I was not sure what ideas this novel left me with: That the Parisian literary world has become totally removed from the ‘real’ world?  That the postmodernist West is ill equipped to face current threats?  That reading might encourage empathy but literary criticism does the opposite?  Perhaps all of these.  Read The necessary angel and see what you think.


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