Throughaglass, Darkely
It’s the Man Booker judge’s and rare books collector’s first novel and he’s 72. I feel a flicker of hope. English lecturer and Dickens collector James Darke has retired from work and the world. He does so emotionally and concretely: changes the door locks, removes the letterbox, redirects his mail. He thinks briefly of hired transport for emergencies but the local rental car company can’t spell, which knocks that on its illiterate head.
Why such rejection? His wife has died, distressingly and protractedly. She was a novelist with a mouth like a plague pit and a full- throttle snob. But he remembers mostly her youth, zeal and the loving anarchy she brought to their lives.
Inside his house, Darke obsesses about his bowels; dines startlingly well on grapes and oysters; plots revenge on the neighbours’ dog; descends into his own purgatory. He also rages against the entire world. In the first four pages, he vilifies builders (“indolent and venal”), neighbours (“offensive”), a handyman (“pockmarked, disgusting”), his own senses (“out of control”) — and as for poor Laura Ashley . . .
Even books let him down; Virginia Woolf, T. S. Eliot, Tolkien, D. H. Lawrence are punched aside. His beloved Dickens begins to seem like a “slobberer” and are any of these trendy new young novelists good or even genuine? No way.
He begins to dwindle to a skeleton, both physically and emotionally. But in the midst of his ranting and five- star misanthropy, there’s a persistent, jet- black splinter of humour and it’s this — plus the aching wound of love — that initiate his return to the world.
Be not afraid. There’s no heart- of- gold sentiment; Darke bites and claws right to the end. His rage and grief make him feel alive. He doesn’t become happy (“thank God”) but he does become reconciled.
It’s clever and cleverly- written. will have you simultaneously shaking your head and smiling as you’ll know such sour old specimens from both genders. And, of course, James Din no way resembles you.