Tag Archives: Vintage Classics

Books Read (But Not Reviewed) in May 2016

Cover imageI seem to be adding one each month to my books read (but not reviewed) tally after March’s miserable single score. May saw three excellent novels added to the list, each very different from the other, starting with one that I wrote a post about well over a year ago, prompted by a friend’s experience of reading a review which revealed her current read’s dramatic twist, much talked about at the time on social media, albeit obliquely. The book was Karen Joy Fowler’s We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves and I now realise how difficult it is to write about and not refer to that all important, much vaunted twist. If you’ve read it you’ll know what I’m talking about. So, all I’m going to say is that it’s told from the point of view of a woman whose brother and sister are both missing. She and her sister were particularly close – almost the same age but entirely different. The disappearance of her brother is linked to that of her sister. It’s both funny and heartrending but to do it proper justice I’d need to spill the beans which I’m determined not to do. All of which just goes to show that it’s very easy to sound off about things when you’re not in full possession of the facts.

I’d read and enjoyed both of Janice Galloway’s memoirs – This is Not About Me and All Made Up – but had not got around to any of her fiction until last month. Her first novel, The Trick is to Keep Breathing, was reissued under the excellent Vintage Classics imprint last year. They’re the publishers responsible for rediscovering both John Williams’ Stoner and Thomas Savage’s The Power of the Dog: they know their onions. Written from the point of view of a woman suffering a profound breakdown, Galloway’s increasingly fractured narrative reflects Joy’s unravelling as, failed repeatedly by her psychiatrists, she buckles under the weight of grief at the sudden death of her lover. It’s a harrowing, visceral read – utterly convincing.The Gallery of Vanished Husbands

Natasha Solomons’ The Gallery Of Vanished Husbands is a much more cheerful affair. Juliet sets off one day in possession of enough money to buy a fridge but finds herself wandering down her favourite street, the Bayswater Road, its pavements populated with artists. Throwing caution to the winds she commissions a portrait from Charlie Fussell, beginning a relationship which will eventually see her as a doyenne of the art world. Solomons’ novel takes her protagonist from the uncomfortable position of  an aguna – a Jewish woman deserted by her husband and considered to be neither a widow or a wife – into a very different world. It’s a thoroughly enjoyable and satisfying journey. Great jacket too!

The Power of the Dog by Thomas Savage: Entirely deserving of its Stoner comparison

Cover imageFirst published in 1967 and now reissued as a rediscovered classic, Thomas Savage’s novel comes lauded to the skies by the likes of Nicholas Shakespeare, who claims it’s better than Stoner, and Annie Proulx, who rates it sufficiently to have written a lengthy afterword. It also came with a health warning from its publicist who told me I’d need a strong stomach for the opening paragraph – and that’s true – but given that I’d read The Son last year, perhaps the most gut-churning book I’ve ever read, I was more than well prepared. And it is only one paragraph – it would be a shame not to continue should you find it all a bit much. Set in 1924, Savage’s novel tells the story of the Burbank brothers, owners of one of Montana’s biggest ranches and rich beyond reckoning yet still sharing the same room they’ve slept in for all but the few years they were at university.

Almost forty, Phil still looks like a boy: not a line to be seen on his face although his hands are deeply scarred from hard work thanks to his refusal to wear the gloves he scorns. Sharp, educated and with a lively enquiring mind, Phil is in stark contrast to his younger brother George, a plodder who barely makes it through the local Saturday paper by the end of the week. These two are inseparable but where Phil despises everyone and everything, delighting in belittling others, George is kind and empathetic, quick to see the tiredness of the widowed owner of their nearest town’s restaurant which caters to the Burbanks’ ranch hands. Also a kind man, Rose’s husband liked a drink, holding forth to anyone who would listen at the town saloon until a cruel humiliation drove him to suicide. Their son Peter, quiet and bookish, knows all about that having suffered taunts and worse at the hands of the local schoolkids. When George brings Rose home as his wife, Phil sets about quietly undermining her until she no longer trusts her own judgement. Once winter is over, Peter comes to stay at the ranch and things take a different turn.

Savage unfolds his story in a straightforward unfussy narrative, occasionally and very effectively switching points of view throwing new light on a crucial event. His characterisation is sharp yet understated – Phil’s calculated cruelty contrasts with George’s open-hearted yet diffident kindness but Savage avoids the pitfall of making Phil a one-dimensional character, gradually uncovering his complexities. It’s left to the reader to infer what lies at the heart of his scornful contempt, although it’s clear to modern minds fairly early on. Rose’s disintegration is poignantly portrayed: ‘When she spoke of Phil her mouth grew dry, her tongue thickened. The thought of him scattered all pleasant and coherent thought and reduced her emotions to a child’s’. It’s a fine novel, entirely worthy of that Stoner comparison. Savage’s descriptions of the sweeping Montana landscape, gruelling winters and the daily business of ranching are all wonderfully cinematic. Given Annie Proulx’s afterword I couldn’t help thinking of Brokeback Mountain and hoping she might pass a copy of Savage’s novel to Ang Lee.