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A review by bianca89279
The Blue Guitar by John Banville
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.