It’s been a
while since I’ve had the gumption to write anything. Life catches up, and you
rush it through rather than pause to acknowledge it. So, with respect to this
regrettable idea, the book of the month (from only my own biased perspective)
goes to If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable
Things by Jon McGregor.
I finished the
book only minutes ago. Maybe it’s the freshness of the story in my mind, and
the way the emotions it evoked are still pushing against my abdomen, but this
novel might just be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever read. Of course, I felt
the same way after reading Les Misérables,
The Thorn Birds, and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. But
then, if I’m already clumping McGregor’s first novel into the same hierarchy as
these three literary giants, just think of
where the author must be headed.
The beginning of
If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things
was fascinating, but I was hesitant about the style. The book is a diluted form
of prose poetry. It reads like a creative novel, except in certain, remarkable places
where new paragraphs are started within the same sentence, and you feel like
the words should be sung instead of spoken. In context, these areas are
powerful, striking. But the beginning seemed a bit too entrenched with
poeticism to suit my prose-mindedness. Take these paragraphs from the first
page:
The city, it
sings.
If you stand
quietly, at the foot of a garden, in the middle of a street, on the roof of a
house.
It’s clearest at
night, when the sound cuts more sharply across the surface of things, when the
song reaches out to a place inside you.
It’s a wordless
song, for the most part, but it’s a song all the same, and nobody hearing it
could doubt what it sings. And the song sings the loudest when you pick out
each note.
The low soothing
hum of air-conditioners, fanning out the heat and the smells of shops and cafes
and offices across the city, winding up and winding down, long breaths layered
upon each other, a lullaby hum for tired streets.
The rush of
traffic still cutting across flyover, even in the dark hours a constant crush
of sound, tyres rolling across tarmac and engines rumbling, loose drains and
manhole covers clack-clacking like cast-iron castanets."
This is,
undeniably, quite wonderful poetry—the repetition, alliteration, the
construction of those clear, vivid descriptions. But as a novel, I was confused
and reluctant to give the rest of the book a try. Once you get past the first
few introductory pages, though, the narrative of the story and the complete
grace of the style will catch you with its claws. And you’ll be happy for it.
You’ll be most
happy when you reach the end--when think you have everything all figured out.
Just as you know the writing and the story have run out of surprises, it will
twist around again, leaving you maybe, or maybe not, sobbing (just a little) and
maybe, or maybe not, dashing for that chocolate stash in your room that you’ve
been keeping for emergency situations. Sorry to spoil the finale of the emotional journey,
but it is quite sad. In all, though, the sadness of it serves as a reminder for just how much we fail to acknowledge every simple, remarkable
thing. And that beauty will make every piece of spent chocolate so much sweeter.
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