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A review by jackieeh
The Swimming-Pool Library by Alan Hollinghurst
4.0
This is the longest its taken me to read a book in years. Years. This had nothing to do with Hollinghurst's writing (which, it should be obvious by now, I love) and everything to do with the narrator. I finished The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, which is rich, grandiose, sad, and humanistic, and launched straight into this, which is...very well-written and well-observed. It was really, really difficult to move from these kind, imperfect characters to William Beckwith. Pretty much any other book would have made for a better lead-in.
Also, I usually do quite a bit of reading on public transportation, but, okay, there's this unspoken agreement that everyone will be reading over your shoulder, and Beckwith (James, Nantwich, Hollinghurst, et. al.) luxuriated in nigh-on fetishistic descriptions of black male anatomy and debates on underage ambiguity, and none of that was going to fly.
But enough about the things that prevented me from reading. Once I got into it three days ago, I was fully into it. Push aside the sex and what you have is a novel about numerous versions of England (multiples pasts and multiples presents) uneasily coexisting. There's the Bridesheadian and Empire-tastic diary flashbacks; there's the 1974 idle rich; there are skinheads and immigrant families and estates; there are trips to the opera, accidental pornography, arrests, adorable nephews, unequal friendships, and a lot of swimming.
It is difficult to follow a narrator like this, but it's also very rewarding. The variations in Will's speech from friend to friend are minute and amazing. Those infinitesimal shifts are so true to life. This is a narrator who is not half the bastard he pretends to be. Hollinghurst gives us only a few glimpses of Will's unfiltered reactions, so brief that Will himself fails to notice. This is masterful, and my favorite thing about the novel. It is also why it took me so long to get going; pay too little attention and you risk missing them altogether.
This book was written the year I was born, and right now I am gearing up to celebrate my 25th birthday on Monday. Some things change, some things stay the same. I will go on loving Alan Hollinghurst, but I will never read The Swimming-Pool Library on the bus.
The Line of Beauty, The Stranger's Child, and this book all feature protagonists who should be working on a book, and aren't. These are not the most restful novels a writer could be reading, but they are among the best.
Also, I usually do quite a bit of reading on public transportation, but, okay, there's this unspoken agreement that everyone will be reading over your shoulder, and Beckwith (James, Nantwich, Hollinghurst, et. al.) luxuriated in nigh-on fetishistic descriptions of black male anatomy and debates on underage ambiguity, and none of that was going to fly.
But enough about the things that prevented me from reading. Once I got into it three days ago, I was fully into it. Push aside the sex and what you have is a novel about numerous versions of England (multiples pasts and multiples presents) uneasily coexisting. There's the Bridesheadian and Empire-tastic diary flashbacks; there's the 1974 idle rich; there are skinheads and immigrant families and estates; there are trips to the opera, accidental pornography, arrests, adorable nephews, unequal friendships, and a lot of swimming.
It is difficult to follow a narrator like this, but it's also very rewarding. The variations in Will's speech from friend to friend are minute and amazing. Those infinitesimal shifts are so true to life. This is a narrator who is not half the bastard he pretends to be. Hollinghurst gives us only a few glimpses of Will's unfiltered reactions, so brief that Will himself fails to notice. This is masterful, and my favorite thing about the novel. It is also why it took me so long to get going; pay too little attention and you risk missing them altogether.
This book was written the year I was born, and right now I am gearing up to celebrate my 25th birthday on Monday. Some things change, some things stay the same. I will go on loving Alan Hollinghurst, but I will never read The Swimming-Pool Library on the bus.
The Line of Beauty, The Stranger's Child, and this book all feature protagonists who should be working on a book, and aren't. These are not the most restful novels a writer could be reading, but they are among the best.