Scan barcode
A review by angelayoung
A Country Road, A Tree by Jo Baker
5.0
If it was possible to give more than five stars to A Country Road, A Tree I would. I'd give it 100 stars, but only if 100 was the maximum. I'd give it as many stars as any rating system would allow. It deserves a thousand. Because it's extraordinary in every sense: the prose is exquisite (and laconic which suits its subject perfectly); the story unfolds without frills, but never once loses pace or tension; the observations and descriptions feel both familiar and unique. A Country Road, A Tree is a novel I would love to have written.
The author, Jo Baker, first came across Samuel Beckett's work while studying for an MA in Irish Writing at Queen's University, Belfast, but in this novel it feels as if she's known his work, and the man himself, all her life. She does that wonderful thing: she infers and expects her readers to get the references (some I did, some I didn't - it doesn't matter, the point is she never patronises or explains, just like her subject). And she never underlines, let alone explains, the connections between Beckett's life and his work. I think she only mentions one work, Murphy, by name but the inspirations, the roots of his future work permeate the novel. Even the main character is never named but, by what he does and who his friends are, his identity is clear (he is named in the acknowledgements which I very often read first, so perhaps I gave myself an unfair advantage, but referring to her main character without a name so suited this novel and the nature of the man's work itself). And the vivid descriptions of hunger, cold, fear and pain are so well done that I felt all these things myself, despite not suffering from any of them. And the - few, but perfect - descriptions of writing.
A few examples:
and, finally (but I could have quoted most of the novel):
The author, Jo Baker, first came across Samuel Beckett's work while studying for an MA in Irish Writing at Queen's University, Belfast, but in this novel it feels as if she's known his work, and the man himself, all her life. She does that wonderful thing: she infers and expects her readers to get the references (some I did, some I didn't - it doesn't matter, the point is she never patronises or explains, just like her subject). And she never underlines, let alone explains, the connections between Beckett's life and his work. I think she only mentions one work, Murphy, by name but the inspirations, the roots of his future work permeate the novel. Even the main character is never named but, by what he does and who his friends are, his identity is clear (he is named in the acknowledgements which I very often read first, so perhaps I gave myself an unfair advantage, but referring to her main character without a name so suited this novel and the nature of the man's work itself). And the vivid descriptions of hunger, cold, fear and pain are so well done that I felt all these things myself, despite not suffering from any of them. And the - few, but perfect - descriptions of writing.
A few examples:
'If one is not writing, one is not quite oneself, don't you find?'[a question to the protagonist from his neighbour, Anna Beamish].
And he thinks: the sweaty sleepless nights in Ireland, heart racing, battling for breath. Frank's gentle company the only thing that could calm him. The two things are connected: the writing and the panic. He just had not put them together, until now.
'It's like snails make slime,' she's saying. 'One will never get along, much less be comfortable, if one doesn't write.'
The cold wakes him. His eyes open on to blackness and he can't make sense of it. Then he sees the stars. He feels the press of the earth against him, pushing at his heels, heaving up against his shoulder blades. His fingers twine into the cold grass, his nails dig into the ground; he is clinging on at the spin of it, the stars hurtling past, the giddy distances, the sick rush of a fairground ride, sticking him flat-backed against this cold earth. ... They sit, side by side, stiff, dew-damp and cold. ... he lifts his wrist and peers, but can't make out the hands. He lifts it to his ear and hears it ticking. She shuffles close, hungry for warmth. He ... plants a blind, awkward kiss - it lands on unwashed, dirty hair.
and, finally (but I could have quoted most of the novel):
This waiting; this attentisme. It has become a deliberate decision. Everyone is waiting to see how grand events will fall before they'll take a position, or do anything about anything at all. This is the politics of passivity, and it makes sense. But it is unconscionable. It is not to be bourne.