49 And Out

January 2, 2006

I humbly stand before you defeated by the 2005 50-Book Challenge. The defeat is even more humiliating because I finished book 49 on December 26, and therefore had plenty of time to make quota. But for various reasons, I failed. In 2006, the quest begins anew.

One notes about this year's list: It was largely made up of crime novels, appropriate since this was the year my book of crime fiction appeared, and also new novels in translation. Since I began reading seriously more than 20 years ago, I've always been drawn to what reductively can be called "world literature." England, while definitely part of the world, doesn't really count, because that country's literary culture, while certainly distinct, has too many ties to the States. But novels from other countries feel like secret messages, even when they're not good. I should probably read that Turkish guy, who is, status-wise, the Garcia Marquez of our time (not that Garcia Marquez is dead yet, mind you), but no one's sending me his stuff for free in the mail. And that marks another trend: This is the year that the books I get to blurb improved. I'm getting more interesting offers from better writers than ever before. I have no idea what that means, except that it jacks up my stats. Now, on with the sad recitation of failed challenges.

Book 47 was The Line Of Beauty, by Alan Hollinghurst, which won the Booker in 2004. A little heavy on the Henry James referencing. Did the protagonist really have to be a James scholar? I get it, I get it. The days of the "obscure hurt" are over, replaced by larger, deadlier hurts. In general, the book's milieu was a little bougie for me. I show my ignorance when I have no idea why Strauss, either of them, is significant for a scene. Still, lots of good, subtle observation, and a well-earned, deeply-moving final act.

Book 48 was The Demented Dance, by a French-Algerian writer named Mounsi. This one's set in the late 80s, among the crime-ridden "red line" suburbs of Paris. Poor suburban French alienated Muslim youth: No one would call this book irrelevant. Unfortunately, I found the translation a little plodding and pretentious. It was 20 pages before anyone spoke in anything but generalizations. I feel expecially bad because I bugged the publisher for months to send me a copy of the book, which I thought sounded interesting. It was, in fact, interesting, but I was in the mood for something a trifle more felicitious, I guess.

I wrapped up the year with The Time Traveller's Wife, which my wife had just done in her book club. It was sitting around, and I knew it was set in Chicago, so...anyway, a bit girly-girl for my tastes, but it's one of the more romantic novels written by someone with actual skill in a long time. I found the voice precious at times, and the ending left me scratching my head a little, but Audrey Niffeneger certainly got the details right. Artsy types would have gone to see a Peter Greenaway film at Facets Multimedia on a Friday night in 1991. The Violent Femmes did play the Aragon. And crazy women, too smart for their own good, sometimes shot themselves in the head.

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