I was attracted to this book because it reminded me of Brideshead Revisited, and I loved both Evelyn Waugh’s book and the 1980s TV series with Jeremy Irons. Brideshead for me however, lost something special the moment it shifted its focus from Charles and Sebastian’s friendship to Charles and Julia’s romance. I’d always been fascinated by the emotions brimming just beneath the surface between Charles and Sebastian, and considered Julia mostly a socially acceptable substitute, and one of the reasons I was disappointed in the 2008 movie is that it removed all subtlety and worse, depicted Charles as being in love with Julia from the very beginning.

Similar to Brideshead, The Stranger’s Child is at its strongest when describing the summer that George Sawle brought poet Cecil Valance to his family estate. George’s younger sister Daphne has a crush on Cecil, and an ambiguous poem he writes in her autograph book gives cause for a debate that spans generations. About a quarter of the way into the book, we learn that Cecil dies in the war, but that his poems live on, particularly the one he wrote while at George and Daphne’s house. Cecil’s motivations behind the poem are left unknown, and the question of whom he loved is left unanswered. Most of the book is about Cecil’s legacy, and the impact of his life — or rather the impact of how people interpret his life — upon future generations.

On one hand, Hollinghurst turns the basic concept of Brideshead into an intergenerational epic. This allows him to explore how attitudes towards homosexuality have changed over time, and how a character in contemporary times needn’t hide as George and Cecil may have.

On the other hand, there is a reason it is so believable for Cecil to have such an impact over generations — he is the most striking presence in the book, and his death leaves a gap not just in the other characters’ lives, but in the story itself. Other characters’ memories of him are significant insofar as the book takes a look at storytelling, and how perception shapes reality, particularly when it comes to historical figures. Unfortunately, none of the other characters possess Cecil’s charisma, and memories of Cecil pale in comparison to his presence.

The rest of the book pales in comparison to the first section, and despite it engaging with a larger breadth of issues, despite Hollinghurst’s lovely way with words, the story has, for the most part, lost its magic.

On an unrelated note, the cover of the paperback is absolutely beautiful, and I may keep my copy for that alone.

+

Thank you to Random House of Canada for a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.

Meet Raymond Gunt, the “Worst. Person. Ever.” He’s self-centred, obnoxious and obsessed with sex. Worse of all, though, he’s also utterly pathetic, dropping in and out of utterly absurd misadventures that are supposed to be entertaining, but instead form a rather sad sack of a book.

Douglas Coupland’s Worst. Person. Ever. has a premise ripe for satire. Cameraman and self-important failure Raymond Gunt is hired by his ex-wife to film a Survivor-like show in a remote tropical island. Raymond, being a despicable person, decides to hire as his assistant a homeless man named Neal who he thinks is even more disgusting than he is. Unfortunately for Raymond, he being also a totally unlucky person (karma’s a bitch), Neal turns out to be a total stud muffin who appears to live a charmed existence and acts as a gleeful foil to highlight Raymond’s haplessness.

Things go wrong in a variety of ways – Raymond’s cruel jests drive an obese man to a fatal heart attack, Raymond himself nearly dies of anaphylactic poisoning twice (the second of which was deliberately induced to get himself out of jail), Raymond is arrested again (he has a knack for pissing people off) and has to dance the Angry Dance from Billy Elliott to win his freedom, he soils his pants while dropping a nuclear bomb on an island of trash, and so on and so forth. With the exception of the poor obese man, the other incidents are more entertaining in the retelling than in the actual reading. I was at page 152 when I realized I didn’t want to waste any more of my time on this. I skipped to the end to see if there was something worth reading on for, and despite a certain knee-jerk-ha-ha-in-your-face-raymond-gunt revelation, it just felt more of the same. It may well turn out that I missed a stroke of genius in the pages in between, but after 152 pages, I really couldn’t care less.

I don’t generally mind despicable characters. I even enjoy a gleeful sendup of pop culture’s shiny veneer. I love Peter Griffin and Family Guy. South Park makes me laugh, even though I admit a gentler humour is more my taste. But here’s the thing: Worst. Person. Ever. isn’t even entertaining. It felt dated, for one thing, Survivor long past being a cultural icon and the Billy Elliott jokes going stale by the third or fourth reference. I may have smiled at the Flintstones in Vegas reference, but by the time Coupland brought Mr. Bean in for laughs, I was bored. Worst of all, I think, is the self-conscious smugness that accompanied every joke. Aren’t I clever? the story seems to ask. Aren’t I showing Raymond Gunt as just the absolute worst? It’s a story that tries far too hard, and it’s tiresome to slog through. Yes, Raymond will screw this up; yes, Neal will come out a shining beacon; yes, bravo, here are a couple new clever little cultural references that reveal something profound about society; yes, yes, yes, ad infinitum.

If you want to read a book about a despicable character, I highly recommend Martin Amis’ Lionel Asbo instead. Biting, brilliant satire, and a thoroughly entertaining read.

+

Thank you to Random House of Canada for a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.

Anthony De Sa’s Kicking the Sky is a coming of age narrative in Toronto’s Portuguese community in the 1970s. It involves the murder of shoeshine boy Emanuel Jaques and a group of young boys who try to make sense of their neighbourhood after such a horrific event.

Antonio Rebelo, first introduced in De Sa’s earlier novel Barnacle Love, and his friends Manny and Ricky love exploring their neighbourhood and are fascinated by an enigmatic new neighbour. The Jaques murder however raises many parental fears and anti-gay sentiments, and the boys’ lives are irrevocably changed.

There is an abundance of fascinating detail in this story. The slaughtering of a pig, for example, is described in such gory detail that it’s almost enough to turn anyone vegetarian, but it’s also contextualized as a rite of passage within the community – a boy’s ability to participate in the slaughter is seen as a sign of manhood. Scenes of the boys running through a maze of alleyways and leaping over rooftops are rushed off with exhilaration, and we can just feel their thrill at freedom.

I found the subplot about the religious fervour surrounding a piece of food somewhat amusing, yet disturbingly all too imaginable. Antonio’s mortification at being used as an object of worship, coupled with the desperation of the people who are willing to pay for the merest touch of his alleged healing power is a horrific depiction of how people like Antonio’s father are willing to take advantage of other people’s need to believe in something. Even more striking, the local priest’s response to the scam heavily implicates the Church in this institutionalized deception.

De Sa paints a comprehensive portrait of Toronto in the 1970s, and includes glimpses into the seedier aspects of neighbourhood life. Young boys trading sex for money are commonplace in De Sa’s Toronto, and Antonio’s protection from that world appears more a privilege than, as should be, a right. A young girl’s pregnancy leads to her eviction from home and her rescue by a young man maintains a distinctly creepy current throughout.

Nothing is what it seems in De Sa’s Toronto, and the Jaques murder brings everything to a head and forces Antonio and his friends into adulthood.

+

Thank you to Random House of Canada for a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.