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roisin_prendergast's review against another edition
4.0
The greatest joy is happening to read about the world as you yourself see it and feel it. For me, John Banville provides that experience to a tee. His writing is perfect. He bathes the everyday and the ordinary in an extraordinary light - lifting people and objects to their fullest potential in such a way as for the reader to truly appreciate and marvel at them and their existence.
Another tale of forbidden love and ill-matched lovers. Again, like the other Banville novels I have read, it is bleak and stormy but there is beauty and humour in the darkness.
I found the narrator and protagonist of this story, Oliver Orme, at first rather unlikeable. But I warmed to him through his playful self-deprecating explanations and descriptions. Although done in a very self-conscious and purposeful way, this side of his character outweighs the selfishness and you can't help but empathise with his reasonings and torments.
Polly - his mistress, his lover, his best friends wife - is loveable and charming in her girlish and unassuming way. I could understand how Oliver came to fall in love with her from the sense of feeling her character projects.
Surprisingly for me, I was slow to take to this book. I think my concentration was off. But once I was in, I was in. And I didn't want to get out.
Another tale of forbidden love and ill-matched lovers. Again, like the other Banville novels I have read, it is bleak and stormy but there is beauty and humour in the darkness.
I found the narrator and protagonist of this story, Oliver Orme, at first rather unlikeable. But I warmed to him through his playful self-deprecating explanations and descriptions. Although done in a very self-conscious and purposeful way, this side of his character outweighs the selfishness and you can't help but empathise with his reasonings and torments.
Polly - his mistress, his lover, his best friends wife - is loveable and charming in her girlish and unassuming way. I could understand how Oliver came to fall in love with her from the sense of feeling her character projects.
Surprisingly for me, I was slow to take to this book. I think my concentration was off. But once I was in, I was in. And I didn't want to get out.
nekreader's review against another edition
3.0
Yawn. Another middle-aged man musing about his mid-life crisis in a novel where nothing much happens, and the characters are unlikable. Many find Banville's prose beautiful, and sometimes it is. But at other times it seems pretentious. There is practically no plot, so if you like a good plot, you won't find it here.
jbarr5's review against another edition
3.0
The blue guitar by John Banville
Oliver Ponn steals things and it's not about the item just that he can get away with it.
His other passion was painting. Starts out with him being a kid of 8 or 9 and stealing a toy from a display at Christmas time.
Also all about his parents and the woman he cheats with while married to another.
I received this book from National Library Service for my BARD (Braille Audio Reading Device).
Oliver Ponn steals things and it's not about the item just that he can get away with it.
His other passion was painting. Starts out with him being a kid of 8 or 9 and stealing a toy from a display at Christmas time.
Also all about his parents and the woman he cheats with while married to another.
I received this book from National Library Service for my BARD (Braille Audio Reading Device).
bianca89279's review against another edition
5.0
Occasionally, I feel uneasy and uncertain when it comes to writing a book review. But never as much as on this occasion. I felt totally self-conscious because I don’t have the skills to write a review that is worthy of such a tremendous novel. So bear with me as I stagger through writing this review.
This was my first John Banville novel. To be honest, I hadn’t heard of him, but when I saw that he’s a Man Booker Prize winner,the literary snob in me I decided that I should request it on NetGalley.
I’ve read some great books in my life, but I can’t remember the last time I was awed by somebody’s writing to this extent. My poor brain was exploding with enchantment, incredulity, and admiration.
It starts like this:
“Call me Autolycus. Well, no, don’t. Although I am, like that unfunny clown, a picker-up of unconsidered trifles. Which is a fancy way of saying I steal things.”
The Blue Guitar is about Oliver Orme. He’s a famous painter, who can’t paint anymore, and who likes to steal little things of no use, just for the thrill of it. He’s pushing fifty and is having some sort of delayed mid-life crisis.
“Childhood is supposed to be a radiant springtime but mine seems to have been always autumn, the gales seething in the big beeches behind this old gate-lodge, as they’re doing right now, and the rooks above them wheeling haphazard, like scraps of char from a bonfire, and a custard-coloured gleam having its last go low down in the western sky”.
This is a character driven novel. It’s Oliver’s musings throughout the entire novel. He’s not a particularly charming character, something that he’s well aware of and admits to it with an uncanny honesty. He’s simple, yet complex. He’s a famous artist who can’t create art anymore. He’s not unhappy but not particularly happy either. He just is. Many times you feel like yelling “get over yourself”! He knows it, too.
Banville has created a complex, three-dimensional character. Oliver is as real as they come. Through him Banville is asking what’s real. Who are we? What is our “true self”? Is there such a thing as a “true self”? Oh, there are so many things to contemplate and think about, it can get a bit exhausting. But don’t let my statement detract you from reading it. Because, while it’s not a fluffy, feel-good novel, it’s filled with humour - smart, sarcastic humour.
Banville’s way with words is astounding. I’ve never had to look up so many words as I had to do while reading The Blue Guitar. Don’t get dispirited by this, because you don’t really have to, you’ll understand the gist of it all, but why wouldn’t you? When was the last time you had the opportunity to learn a new word? I personally was mesmerised. And awed. And gobsmacked. And many other things I don’t have the vocabulary to express, at least not eloquently enough. In this world where the “lowest common denominator” is the status-quo, I feel grateful and lucky to have come across an author who raises the bar, without being cumbersome or arrogant.
Many novels these days include books and music references. The Blue Guitar brings up art, mainly painting references. That was another aspect I truly enjoyed about this novel.
Oliver’s irreverence and self-effacing ramblings made me smile on many occasions.
For instance, here’s how he describes himself:
“The fact is, whenever I made an overture to a woman, which I seldom did, even in my young days, I never really expected it to be entertained, or even noticed, despite certain instances of success, which I tended to regards as flukes, the result of misunderstanding, or dimness on the part of the woman and simple good fortune on mine. I’m not an immediately alluring specimen, having been, for a start, the runt of the litter. I’m short and stout, or better go the whole hog and say fat, with a big head and tiny feet. My hair is of a shade somewhere between wet rust and badly tarnished brass, and in damp weather, or when I’m by the seaside, clenches itself into curls that are as tight and dense as cauliflower florets and stubbornly resistant to fiercest combings. My skin – oh, my skin! – is a flaccid, moist, off-white integument, so that I look as if I had been blanched in the dark for a long time. Of my freckles I shall not speak.”
John Banville is a wordsmith. Every phrase is painstakingly crafted, as if it were precious glass that he’s carefully blown into art objects, but his are beautifully constructed phrases. His writing has a certain musicality, a cadence that’s quite unique. And he never ceases to surprise, amaze and delight. This is definitely a novel that’s going on my Favourites shelf. I can’t rave enough about it. While it’s not for everyone, if you love good literature, then I wholeheartedly recommend this splendid novel.
I’ve received this novel via NetGalley in exchange of an honest review. Many thanks to Penguin UK for allowing me to read and review this novel.
This was my first John Banville novel. To be honest, I hadn’t heard of him, but when I saw that he’s a Man Booker Prize winner,
I’ve read some great books in my life, but I can’t remember the last time I was awed by somebody’s writing to this extent. My poor brain was exploding with enchantment, incredulity, and admiration.
It starts like this:
“Call me Autolycus. Well, no, don’t. Although I am, like that unfunny clown, a picker-up of unconsidered trifles. Which is a fancy way of saying I steal things.”
The Blue Guitar is about Oliver Orme. He’s a famous painter, who can’t paint anymore, and who likes to steal little things of no use, just for the thrill of it. He’s pushing fifty and is having some sort of delayed mid-life crisis.
“Childhood is supposed to be a radiant springtime but mine seems to have been always autumn, the gales seething in the big beeches behind this old gate-lodge, as they’re doing right now, and the rooks above them wheeling haphazard, like scraps of char from a bonfire, and a custard-coloured gleam having its last go low down in the western sky”.
This is a character driven novel. It’s Oliver’s musings throughout the entire novel. He’s not a particularly charming character, something that he’s well aware of and admits to it with an uncanny honesty. He’s simple, yet complex. He’s a famous artist who can’t create art anymore. He’s not unhappy but not particularly happy either. He just is. Many times you feel like yelling “get over yourself”! He knows it, too.
Banville has created a complex, three-dimensional character. Oliver is as real as they come. Through him Banville is asking what’s real. Who are we? What is our “true self”? Is there such a thing as a “true self”? Oh, there are so many things to contemplate and think about, it can get a bit exhausting. But don’t let my statement detract you from reading it. Because, while it’s not a fluffy, feel-good novel, it’s filled with humour - smart, sarcastic humour.
Banville’s way with words is astounding. I’ve never had to look up so many words as I had to do while reading The Blue Guitar. Don’t get dispirited by this, because you don’t really have to, you’ll understand the gist of it all, but why wouldn’t you? When was the last time you had the opportunity to learn a new word? I personally was mesmerised. And awed. And gobsmacked. And many other things I don’t have the vocabulary to express, at least not eloquently enough. In this world where the “lowest common denominator” is the status-quo, I feel grateful and lucky to have come across an author who raises the bar, without being cumbersome or arrogant.
Many novels these days include books and music references. The Blue Guitar brings up art, mainly painting references. That was another aspect I truly enjoyed about this novel.
Oliver’s irreverence and self-effacing ramblings made me smile on many occasions.
For instance, here’s how he describes himself:
“The fact is, whenever I made an overture to a woman, which I seldom did, even in my young days, I never really expected it to be entertained, or even noticed, despite certain instances of success, which I tended to regards as flukes, the result of misunderstanding, or dimness on the part of the woman and simple good fortune on mine. I’m not an immediately alluring specimen, having been, for a start, the runt of the litter. I’m short and stout, or better go the whole hog and say fat, with a big head and tiny feet. My hair is of a shade somewhere between wet rust and badly tarnished brass, and in damp weather, or when I’m by the seaside, clenches itself into curls that are as tight and dense as cauliflower florets and stubbornly resistant to fiercest combings. My skin – oh, my skin! – is a flaccid, moist, off-white integument, so that I look as if I had been blanched in the dark for a long time. Of my freckles I shall not speak.”
John Banville is a wordsmith. Every phrase is painstakingly crafted, as if it were precious glass that he’s carefully blown into art objects, but his are beautifully constructed phrases. His writing has a certain musicality, a cadence that’s quite unique. And he never ceases to surprise, amaze and delight. This is definitely a novel that’s going on my Favourites shelf. I can’t rave enough about it. While it’s not for everyone, if you love good literature, then I wholeheartedly recommend this splendid novel.
I’ve received this novel via NetGalley in exchange of an honest review. Many thanks to Penguin UK for allowing me to read and review this novel.
mattneely's review against another edition
5.0
Possible the greatest book I've ever read. He is just incredible.
cjeanne99's review against another edition
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.0
Oliver Otway Ormay gives us a soliloquy of his life; his painting, his petty thievery, his relationship with his father, his marriage, his best friend, his affair with his best friend’s wife. He is one of those people who believes that we, the reader, should be interested in everything they have to say.
robshpprd's review against another edition
3.0
This is my second Banville novel. There’s a pattern for sure. Beautiful language and a painful lack of plot. The most interesting moments are tricks lifted almost directly out of Nabokov. There’s a line in this novel about (I think) Cezanne, something like, “I could see his greatness, I just didn’t like what he did with it.” That’s kind of how I feel about Banville. He’s talented for sure. I just don’t much care for the stories he chooses to tell with that talent.
plan2read's review against another edition
5.0
Feels somehow like an across-the-Atlantic cousin of [b:The Goldfinch|17333223|The Goldfinch|Donna Tartt|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1378710146s/17333223.jpg|24065147] with its themes of art and thievery. Rich in vocabulary (so many unfamiliar words!) and distinguished by its personalized depiction of the guilt-plagued sin nature.
fictionfan's review
5.0
The end of the affair...
Olly Orme used to be a painter, but his muse has left him. He's still a thief though. He doesn't steal for money – it's the thrill that attracts him. He feels it's essential that his thefts are noticed or they don't count as theft. Usually it's small things he steals – a figurine, a tie-pin. But nine months ago, he stole his friend's wife, and now that theft is about to be discovered.
This is Olly's own story, told directly to the reader in the form of a narrative being written as events unfold. The tone starts off light and progressively darkens, but there is a delicious vein of humour throughout the book, observational sometimes, self-deprecatory at others. Olly is a narcissist, but his ability to admit his faults with a kind of saucy twinkle makes him an endearing character. For all his knowingness, he is child-like in his lack of understanding of other people, and over the course of the book he will learn that the people close to him know him considerably better than he knows them.
There isn't much plot in the book – an affair that becomes known, and its aftermath on the people involved. Normally I hate books that are light on plot, but the sheer enjoyment of reading Banville's luscious prose and wickedly perceptive characterisation kept me fully engaged. Olly's style is discursive and untidy, digressing mid-thought back to his past and then just as suddenly jumping off to discuss his style of painting or his thoughts on stealing. But underneath Olly's meanderings Banville is keeping tight control – all of Olly's detours and reminiscences serve Banville's central purpose, to gradually reveal to the reader all the complexities of the flawed and weak, but rather charming, character of Olly himself.
One doesn't have to wonder if Olly is an unreliable narrator, since he tells us frequently that he is. He openly uses false names of the Happy Families variety for the incidental people he meets – Mr Hanley the Haberdasher, etc - and embellishes remembered conversations to make them sound more interesting, but then owns up to it. This all adds to the feeling of him as being child-like, an innocent... but then we also know he's intelligent and untrustworthy, so what are we to believe? He spends much time trying to work out why he can no longer paint, but the reader feels the answer might not be as complex as he likes to think. Even the world he describes has a mild air of unreality to it – solar flares and meteor showers, a world rather crumbling round the edges. It's almost as if the time is not exactly now or else the world is not exactly this one – or perhaps it's a projection of Olly's narcissism, that when his life is disrupted, the whole world shakes in sympathy.
It's only when he talks of a past tragedy in his life that one feels the truth of this man is within grasp. But then he will quickly spin away again, complicating his life more and more, and though he pictures himself as suffering, it's hard not to feel he is enjoying this drama of his own creation, perhaps hiding in it. Even his frequent self-criticism is just another aspect of his overwhelming narcissism – so long as Olly can talk about himself, one feels he will weather any storm.
This is the first of Banville's books that I have read, and I loved it. Looking at reviews from people who are familiar with his earlier books, there's a suggestion that this one doesn't have as much substance as they do. That may very well be true – I would agree that, other than Olly's character, there's nothing particularly original or profound here. But it's the language! The fabulous prose! I could forgive a lot to someone who makes me enjoy every word, whether deeply meaningful or dazzlingly light. And Banville dazzled me while Olly entertained me – I'll happily settle for that.
NB This book was provided for review by the publisher, Penguin Books UK.
www.fictionfanblog.wordpress.com
Olly Orme used to be a painter, but his muse has left him. He's still a thief though. He doesn't steal for money – it's the thrill that attracts him. He feels it's essential that his thefts are noticed or they don't count as theft. Usually it's small things he steals – a figurine, a tie-pin. But nine months ago, he stole his friend's wife, and now that theft is about to be discovered.
This is Olly's own story, told directly to the reader in the form of a narrative being written as events unfold. The tone starts off light and progressively darkens, but there is a delicious vein of humour throughout the book, observational sometimes, self-deprecatory at others. Olly is a narcissist, but his ability to admit his faults with a kind of saucy twinkle makes him an endearing character. For all his knowingness, he is child-like in his lack of understanding of other people, and over the course of the book he will learn that the people close to him know him considerably better than he knows them.
What I really wanted to do was to kiss her lips, to lick her eyelids, to dart the tip of my tongue into the pink and secret volutes of her ear. I was in a state of heady amazement, at myself, at Polly, at what we were, at what we had all at once become. It was as if a god had reached down from that sky of stars and scooped us up in his hand and made a little constellation of us on the spot.
There isn't much plot in the book – an affair that becomes known, and its aftermath on the people involved. Normally I hate books that are light on plot, but the sheer enjoyment of reading Banville's luscious prose and wickedly perceptive characterisation kept me fully engaged. Olly's style is discursive and untidy, digressing mid-thought back to his past and then just as suddenly jumping off to discuss his style of painting or his thoughts on stealing. But underneath Olly's meanderings Banville is keeping tight control – all of Olly's detours and reminiscences serve Banville's central purpose, to gradually reveal to the reader all the complexities of the flawed and weak, but rather charming, character of Olly himself.
What I saw, with jarring clarity, was that there is no such thing as woman. Woman, I realised, is a thing of legend, a phantasm who flies through the world, settling here and there on this or that unsuspecting mortal female, whom she turns, briefly but momentously, into an object of yearning, veneration and terror.
One doesn't have to wonder if Olly is an unreliable narrator, since he tells us frequently that he is. He openly uses false names of the Happy Families variety for the incidental people he meets – Mr Hanley the Haberdasher, etc - and embellishes remembered conversations to make them sound more interesting, but then owns up to it. This all adds to the feeling of him as being child-like, an innocent... but then we also know he's intelligent and untrustworthy, so what are we to believe? He spends much time trying to work out why he can no longer paint, but the reader feels the answer might not be as complex as he likes to think. Even the world he describes has a mild air of unreality to it – solar flares and meteor showers, a world rather crumbling round the edges. It's almost as if the time is not exactly now or else the world is not exactly this one – or perhaps it's a projection of Olly's narcissism, that when his life is disrupted, the whole world shakes in sympathy.
How well I remember her face, which is a foolish claim to make, since any face, especially a child's, is in a gradual but relentless process of change and development, so that what I carry in my memory can be only a version of her, a generalisation of her, that I have fashioned for myself, as an evanescent keepsake.
It's only when he talks of a past tragedy in his life that one feels the truth of this man is within grasp. But then he will quickly spin away again, complicating his life more and more, and though he pictures himself as suffering, it's hard not to feel he is enjoying this drama of his own creation, perhaps hiding in it. Even his frequent self-criticism is just another aspect of his overwhelming narcissism – so long as Olly can talk about himself, one feels he will weather any storm.
This is the first of Banville's books that I have read, and I loved it. Looking at reviews from people who are familiar with his earlier books, there's a suggestion that this one doesn't have as much substance as they do. That may very well be true – I would agree that, other than Olly's character, there's nothing particularly original or profound here. But it's the language! The fabulous prose! I could forgive a lot to someone who makes me enjoy every word, whether deeply meaningful or dazzlingly light. And Banville dazzled me while Olly entertained me – I'll happily settle for that.
NB This book was provided for review by the publisher, Penguin Books UK.
www.fictionfanblog.wordpress.com