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yonyorklad's reviews
203 reviews
An Abundance of Katherines by John Green
3.0
Imagine a high and mighty 28 year old man giving three stars to a YA novel he should have read when he was 15.
How lockdown makes kings of us all.
How lockdown makes kings of us all.
High Fidelity by Nick Hornby
3.0
Retrospective longing: Revisiting the book and the relationship that changed my life
Frank Skinner once broke up with a woman because she said her favourite novel was High Fidelity. Seems a little harsh. It’s not a novel, it’s a book, my friend says. That’s reasonable. A friend’s father claims that Nick Hornby only knows about football and music and has capitalised on both without much talent. Well that’s just clever on his part, if you ask me.
I was handed a copy of High Fidelity by a close friend’s mum when I was 16, deep in the shallow wallowing that followed my first (and still most painful) break-up. I think she probably just wanted me to stop crying onto her living room upholstery. “You need this book in your life right now,” I seem to recall her saying. I doubt this is the actual sentence she said as she gently ushered me out of the back door, but I definitely remember feeling I was being handed something significant. A book that would hold heavy heft.
I’d like to have a better book to attach such heft to, being honest. Billy Connolly gets A Confederacy of Dunces. Ian Rankin gets A Clockwork Orange. Even Frank Skinner gets How to Talk Dirty and Influence People. Makes sense, I suppose. But you don’t pick the book, the book picks you. And it’s my heft. Important heft. My heft is the heaviest of all the heft. You want a book with a thick spine to carry such weight, such praise, such importance. Coming in at just over 200 pages, the spine of High Fidelity snaps just from being opened, and it’s only going to get weaker with the pressure and scrutiny it’s been under over the years, while I’ve been singing it's praises.
That line in The History Boys about feeling like the writer is reaching out and taking your hand was apposite from the opening page. The name of Rob’s ex was Laura (same as mine, surely no coincidence!) and the mixture of anger followed by exuberance that comes from a fresh break-up was dancing amongst the sentences like a jolly kitten helping me through the pain. It is a pop song of a book, and Hornby would take that as a compliment. It’s short, easy, fun, throwaway and, dare I say it, leaves you wanting more. Fresh to the idea of reading for pleasure, I devoured it like a light sandwich (ham and cucumber). But never worth a repeat until now.
I don’t revisit books, as a rule. This is, to my memory, the only book I’ve read for a second time. There’s not enough time and too much new stuff to jump onto next. I get dizzy looking at the length of my reading list. But it was nice making an exception for this book, with lockdown and loneliness allowing me the time to sit and recollect. And it probably would have been best leaving it where it was, back in 2008, with Mascara Story, White Ace, shag bands and hair. It could never live up to the hype.
As a narrator, it’s harder to spend time in the company of Rob now. His mates are still just as grating and unlikable as I remember. The top 5 lists are still great for eating up space on a page. His ex is still in the right on all grounds of reasons for breaking up. His musical knowledge is still far greater than mine and his snobbishness undue.
And I see more of myself in him now, which is a shame, because he does seem a bit of a knob, when it comes down to it. But my life experience endears me to him. And he’s also a misogynist, which is a shame. Not a particularly nasty one, not one with any real hatred towards women, but the more basic kind who is happy to point out the undeniable, basic differences between the genders when he's down the pub with his mates. The type who, these days, would probably listen to a fair amount of Joe Rogan and display multiple copies of Jordan Peterson’s book with an arrogant prominence on his shelf. Not my cup of tea. But I relate to Rob far less now, too, so what does that say about me? Seems a contradiction in terms, I agree. I suppose he’s meant to be shown as honest. ‘Look, this book is going to be different, yeah, coz it’s gonna show men with all their flaws. Coz we fart, don’t we lads? We like a right good fart. And honestly, bad as it sounds, sometimes we just want to be left alone to listen to our records, don’t we lads? We want to just sit and listen to our records in a cloud of our own guffs and not have to worry about pleasing the missus.’ This is the 90s, after all, so we can finally be honest about that. Phew.
The fact that (spoiler alert) Laura gets back with him eventually because she’s ‘too tired not to be’ speaks volumes about what kind of a dysfunctional relationship we’re presented with. And this is posed as a happy ending. It won’t do. Though, try telling that to a teen RJJ, listening too deeply to REM and necking Polish vodka. I would have settled for a Laura who was so worn down she just settled at 16. Weariness is actually a key signifier of true love, and I can reference plenty of Brand New lyrics and early stabs at poetry to back up that opinion, so don’t even start.
There’s long sections of him simply showing off his musical knowledge – I imagine if I was to write something similar it would come off the same way, but that’s why I’m sticking to a discursive and fairly indulgent GoodReads review, while he’s sold millions of books around the world. Ask me what my favourite genre of music was back then, my most likely response would have been “Does the Garden State soundtrack count as a genre?” But if only to discover Solomon Burke’s 'Got to Get You off my Mind', this re-visit was worth it.
And with Laura I can pin-point specific songs I still associate with her, like a lovelorn sociopath with a tealight mural set up in their basement (this is not me - I’m not allowed flammables in the basement). Lyrics she had on her myspace page or artists I was just getting into where I was definitely the solo intended audience for every lyric. The Cure’s Pornography, “A hand in my mouth/ A life spills into flowers…”; Rise Against’s Like the Angel, “A beating heart and a microphone/ A ticking clock and an empty home”; Counting Crows’ Anna Begins, “She’s talking in her sleep…/ Every word I hear is nonsense but I understand it all”; David Gray’s Please Forgive Me, “Feels like lightning running through my veins every time I look at you”. I could go on, but the pasta’s about to boil over and I still need your patience for the ragu.
There’s so many memories tied into those pages. Buying the film adaptation on VHS for 50p from an Oxfam on Boar Lane that no longer exists and being so impressed with the producers’ loyalty to the book. Being with a friend who was reading it on holiday and waiting with anticipation to see their response, only for it to be, ‘yeah, it was good, that.” Bonding with a chap at uni who said it was one of his favourites too and feeling for the first time that I might not be a fraud after all.
About 18 months ago I bumped into Laura in the smoking area of Revs, and we had a catch-up, but my head was spinning and I wasn't at my best. We both had steady jobs and were happy and smoking rollies and it was nice. I didn’t mention the awful poetry she’d inspired, or the weeks I’d spent crying when she went off with another guy. But as we parted ways, I slipped a copy of High Fidelity into her bag unnoticed. Maybe it’ll have the same impact on her that it did on me. Maybe, just maybe, it will change her life.
Probably not, though. For this is, in fact, a lie.
Frank Skinner once broke up with a woman because she said her favourite novel was High Fidelity. Seems a little harsh. It’s not a novel, it’s a book, my friend says. That’s reasonable. A friend’s father claims that Nick Hornby only knows about football and music and has capitalised on both without much talent. Well that’s just clever on his part, if you ask me.
I was handed a copy of High Fidelity by a close friend’s mum when I was 16, deep in the shallow wallowing that followed my first (and still most painful) break-up. I think she probably just wanted me to stop crying onto her living room upholstery. “You need this book in your life right now,” I seem to recall her saying. I doubt this is the actual sentence she said as she gently ushered me out of the back door, but I definitely remember feeling I was being handed something significant. A book that would hold heavy heft.
I’d like to have a better book to attach such heft to, being honest. Billy Connolly gets A Confederacy of Dunces. Ian Rankin gets A Clockwork Orange. Even Frank Skinner gets How to Talk Dirty and Influence People. Makes sense, I suppose. But you don’t pick the book, the book picks you. And it’s my heft. Important heft. My heft is the heaviest of all the heft. You want a book with a thick spine to carry such weight, such praise, such importance. Coming in at just over 200 pages, the spine of High Fidelity snaps just from being opened, and it’s only going to get weaker with the pressure and scrutiny it’s been under over the years, while I’ve been singing it's praises.
That line in The History Boys about feeling like the writer is reaching out and taking your hand was apposite from the opening page. The name of Rob’s ex was Laura (same as mine, surely no coincidence!) and the mixture of anger followed by exuberance that comes from a fresh break-up was dancing amongst the sentences like a jolly kitten helping me through the pain. It is a pop song of a book, and Hornby would take that as a compliment. It’s short, easy, fun, throwaway and, dare I say it, leaves you wanting more. Fresh to the idea of reading for pleasure, I devoured it like a light sandwich (ham and cucumber). But never worth a repeat until now.
I don’t revisit books, as a rule. This is, to my memory, the only book I’ve read for a second time. There’s not enough time and too much new stuff to jump onto next. I get dizzy looking at the length of my reading list. But it was nice making an exception for this book, with lockdown and loneliness allowing me the time to sit and recollect. And it probably would have been best leaving it where it was, back in 2008, with Mascara Story, White Ace, shag bands and hair. It could never live up to the hype.
As a narrator, it’s harder to spend time in the company of Rob now. His mates are still just as grating and unlikable as I remember. The top 5 lists are still great for eating up space on a page. His ex is still in the right on all grounds of reasons for breaking up. His musical knowledge is still far greater than mine and his snobbishness undue.
And I see more of myself in him now, which is a shame, because he does seem a bit of a knob, when it comes down to it. But my life experience endears me to him. And he’s also a misogynist, which is a shame. Not a particularly nasty one, not one with any real hatred towards women, but the more basic kind who is happy to point out the undeniable, basic differences between the genders when he's down the pub with his mates. The type who, these days, would probably listen to a fair amount of Joe Rogan and display multiple copies of Jordan Peterson’s book with an arrogant prominence on his shelf. Not my cup of tea. But I relate to Rob far less now, too, so what does that say about me? Seems a contradiction in terms, I agree. I suppose he’s meant to be shown as honest. ‘Look, this book is going to be different, yeah, coz it’s gonna show men with all their flaws. Coz we fart, don’t we lads? We like a right good fart. And honestly, bad as it sounds, sometimes we just want to be left alone to listen to our records, don’t we lads? We want to just sit and listen to our records in a cloud of our own guffs and not have to worry about pleasing the missus.’ This is the 90s, after all, so we can finally be honest about that. Phew.
The fact that (spoiler alert) Laura gets back with him eventually because she’s ‘too tired not to be’ speaks volumes about what kind of a dysfunctional relationship we’re presented with. And this is posed as a happy ending. It won’t do. Though, try telling that to a teen RJJ, listening too deeply to REM and necking Polish vodka. I would have settled for a Laura who was so worn down she just settled at 16. Weariness is actually a key signifier of true love, and I can reference plenty of Brand New lyrics and early stabs at poetry to back up that opinion, so don’t even start.
There’s long sections of him simply showing off his musical knowledge – I imagine if I was to write something similar it would come off the same way, but that’s why I’m sticking to a discursive and fairly indulgent GoodReads review, while he’s sold millions of books around the world. Ask me what my favourite genre of music was back then, my most likely response would have been “Does the Garden State soundtrack count as a genre?” But if only to discover Solomon Burke’s 'Got to Get You off my Mind', this re-visit was worth it.
And with Laura I can pin-point specific songs I still associate with her, like a lovelorn sociopath with a tealight mural set up in their basement (this is not me - I’m not allowed flammables in the basement). Lyrics she had on her myspace page or artists I was just getting into where I was definitely the solo intended audience for every lyric. The Cure’s Pornography, “A hand in my mouth/ A life spills into flowers…”; Rise Against’s Like the Angel, “A beating heart and a microphone/ A ticking clock and an empty home”; Counting Crows’ Anna Begins, “She’s talking in her sleep…/ Every word I hear is nonsense but I understand it all”; David Gray’s Please Forgive Me, “Feels like lightning running through my veins every time I look at you”. I could go on, but the pasta’s about to boil over and I still need your patience for the ragu.
There’s so many memories tied into those pages. Buying the film adaptation on VHS for 50p from an Oxfam on Boar Lane that no longer exists and being so impressed with the producers’ loyalty to the book. Being with a friend who was reading it on holiday and waiting with anticipation to see their response, only for it to be, ‘yeah, it was good, that.” Bonding with a chap at uni who said it was one of his favourites too and feeling for the first time that I might not be a fraud after all.
About 18 months ago I bumped into Laura in the smoking area of Revs, and we had a catch-up, but my head was spinning and I wasn't at my best. We both had steady jobs and were happy and smoking rollies and it was nice. I didn’t mention the awful poetry she’d inspired, or the weeks I’d spent crying when she went off with another guy. But as we parted ways, I slipped a copy of High Fidelity into her bag unnoticed. Maybe it’ll have the same impact on her that it did on me. Maybe, just maybe, it will change her life.
Probably not, though. For this is, in fact, a lie.