Scan barcode
A review by abotoldaccount
Never Mind by Edward St Aubyn
4.0
This is the first of the Patrick Melrose novels, and chronicles a day in the south of France while the eponymous character is five years old, surrounded by his drug- and alcohol-dependent mother, abusive father, and a surrounding cast of their friends and acquaintances who descend on the Melrose residence. It is a slow-moving book – although there is much drama in the action taking place, the focus of the prose is in the motivations and nuances of the characters caught in their currents. Primarily, it is about David Melrose: Patrick’s father, and a horrible, horrible man.
Edward St Aubyn’s prose is of incredibly high quality – there’s no denying that. The writing is sharp and precise, filed with the reservedness of English society but filled with revealing detail. Each character is acutely observed, warts and all – often, with more space given to warts than smooth skin, as far as personality is concerned. This is something I’ve often found difficult about ‘society’ novels – it’s not very compelling to read about a group of people all of whom could fall in a ditch and you wouldn’t be bothered. But St Aubyn is not falling into that trap, and there is far more to the narrator’s observations than the horribleness of people.
This is the first of five books following Patrick Melrose – going in knowing that, I paid possibly more attention to the lonely five-year-old than I otherwise would. He is dreamy and neglected, full of ambitions which he cannot quite fulfill. But he is only five, and can’t quite carry the narrative by himself – and the cast surrounding him make for interesting viewing. His mother, Eleanor, is a mess – drinking and popping an assortment of drugs to make it through the day, fearful of her husband and yearning for a real friend in a way she can’t articulate, she has lost her connection to her son and has no concept of how to establish it.
The variety of guests brought into the house have their own flaws – Bridget Watson-Scott is shallow, cynical and self-absorbed, Nicholas Pratt has little empathy and a fascination with dysfunction, Victor Eisen is willing to overlook other people’s cruelty for their social standing. The most ‘normal’ or perhaps, recognisable, is Anne Moore, Victor’s partner – and though at the start of the novel I wasn’t sure about them, by the end I was relieved to have the glimpse of honest humanity.
The Melrose’s relationships are set against these other pairs – one who, although very different, muddle along in happiness; and another who are often entirely at cross-purposes, who don’t really care for each other but are carrying on anyway. The history of David and Eleanor’s relationship is haunting and saddening; the power which he has exerted over her, and the pain he continues to inflict, having only married her for her money. Anne’s sympathy for Patrick is painful, as she cannot begin to understand the extent of his trauma in this house.
Bridget brings a much-needed element of comic relief – but rather than just being used for humorous observations, she is often used to underline the darkness of the situation, and possibly sees things most clearly: she becomes entirely clear about how dangerous David Melrose is. There are many parts of the novel which were uncomfortable to read – and they are meant to be, chronicling as it does incredibly dark and traumatising events.
This would feel like a strange book to ‘recommend’, because its subject matter is so distressing – but it is magnificently written, and casts a very straightforward gaze on autobiographical events from the author’s life. I was nervous about all that going in – but I came out with nothing but admiration. If you’ve enjoyed some of Ian McEwan’s darker books, this may also be something you’ll enjoy.
Edward St Aubyn’s prose is of incredibly high quality – there’s no denying that. The writing is sharp and precise, filed with the reservedness of English society but filled with revealing detail. Each character is acutely observed, warts and all – often, with more space given to warts than smooth skin, as far as personality is concerned. This is something I’ve often found difficult about ‘society’ novels – it’s not very compelling to read about a group of people all of whom could fall in a ditch and you wouldn’t be bothered. But St Aubyn is not falling into that trap, and there is far more to the narrator’s observations than the horribleness of people.
This is the first of five books following Patrick Melrose – going in knowing that, I paid possibly more attention to the lonely five-year-old than I otherwise would. He is dreamy and neglected, full of ambitions which he cannot quite fulfill. But he is only five, and can’t quite carry the narrative by himself – and the cast surrounding him make for interesting viewing. His mother, Eleanor, is a mess – drinking and popping an assortment of drugs to make it through the day, fearful of her husband and yearning for a real friend in a way she can’t articulate, she has lost her connection to her son and has no concept of how to establish it.
The variety of guests brought into the house have their own flaws – Bridget Watson-Scott is shallow, cynical and self-absorbed, Nicholas Pratt has little empathy and a fascination with dysfunction, Victor Eisen is willing to overlook other people’s cruelty for their social standing. The most ‘normal’ or perhaps, recognisable, is Anne Moore, Victor’s partner – and though at the start of the novel I wasn’t sure about them, by the end I was relieved to have the glimpse of honest humanity.
The Melrose’s relationships are set against these other pairs – one who, although very different, muddle along in happiness; and another who are often entirely at cross-purposes, who don’t really care for each other but are carrying on anyway. The history of David and Eleanor’s relationship is haunting and saddening; the power which he has exerted over her, and the pain he continues to inflict, having only married her for her money. Anne’s sympathy for Patrick is painful, as she cannot begin to understand the extent of his trauma in this house.
Bridget brings a much-needed element of comic relief – but rather than just being used for humorous observations, she is often used to underline the darkness of the situation, and possibly sees things most clearly: she becomes entirely clear about how dangerous David Melrose is. There are many parts of the novel which were uncomfortable to read – and they are meant to be, chronicling as it does incredibly dark and traumatising events.
This would feel like a strange book to ‘recommend’, because its subject matter is so distressing – but it is magnificently written, and casts a very straightforward gaze on autobiographical events from the author’s life. I was nervous about all that going in – but I came out with nothing but admiration. If you’ve enjoyed some of Ian McEwan’s darker books, this may also be something you’ll enjoy.