It's moment like these when I realise some of the sections of this blog may not be fully well named - granted, calling this section 'Books to Read' gave it a nice rhythm to echo 'Things to Do' (where I promise I'll post soon - not before I rant about these books though).
I'm warning you now, this is probably where my intellectual snobbery comes to its peak, so if you'd rather roll your eyes at a mediocre book than at my literary anger, then you should probably bypass this post.
Hari Kunzru, White Tears
The problem with Kunzru's new novel is that the synopsis and most summaries I have read only describe the last five to ten pages of the book, which are actually quite good. Unfortunately, to get to them, you need to go through the rest of a confused, jumbled up storyline which struggles to get to its peak.
I was more frustrated than bored - most of the story reads like a teenage crime novel, with hasty plotlines and half-defined characters, which nearly pushed me to put the book down for good several times.
Most frustrating, however, was reaching that very remote point where the plot does actually thicken and Kunzru starts making sense: I was left wondering what could have been of this book if 90% hadn't been so disappointing.
Jami Attenberg, All Grown Up
Do you want to read the angsty, grown up crossing between Twilight and the Princess Diaries, complete with psychological trauma? Then All Grown Up is for you.
I picked it up genuinely expecting a coming-of-age novel for the millenials, a profound reflection on the individualistic way of life of a growing woman in New York today. I put it down almost as disgusted by my millenial generation as my middle-aged colleagues.
Attenberg sets out to unpack the difficult trauma of a young woman living in New York, which from my perspective sounded like something I could potentially relate to. I quickly found myself reeling at the simplistic, self-absorbed rant which constitutes the voice of the novel, and suddenly realizing this was, indeed, the grown-up voice of Bella Swan, if the now-vampire had discovered red wine and bodegas. Overall, an exasperating read.
Garth Greenwell, What Belongs To You
On first impression, a book about the trials and tribulations of a gay American man living in Sofia and paying a young Bulgarian for sex is exactly the kind of book I would like (and if you think I'm kidding, you don't know me well enough).
Unfortunately, whilst the book hits all the right themes (guilt, grief, trauma), it does so without developing any character at all. Using conventional tropes of the disenfranchised youth, Greenwell introduces the character of Mitko, a young 'hustler' who the American narrator and hero somehow falls in love with.
The real problem for me was Greenwell's obsessively contemplative writing, which was more ego and self-involvement than story telling. Ultimately, the downfall of the book is just how American it is: the pompous first-voice narrative does indeed express shock and trauma, but only at the most superficial level, and Greenwell becomes more obsessed with his own voice than he does with the narrative he builds.