At 10:35 on an early summer's morning, John Lanchester sat down at his study desk, switched on his new Dell computer, opened up the word processing programme that the computer had come with and began

To answer the question a bit more directly - not popular enough to publish while still in copyright?

can't even

it's like a boring party emulator. where are you from? then chatting about house prices.

have you...

http://storythings.com/

"In 31 years you've gone from London to London. That's a distance of 0 miles."

"If you own a house, that's worth £0 more, too"

Average annual income in London - £80, 358 (?!).

I suspect someone hasn't thought this through.

The aim of Pepys Road was to get people reading John Lanchester’s brilliant book, so the behaviour we wanted to base the project around was reading

oh, y'think?

Do you feel as if you’ve travelled further?

In 107 years, you've gone from Hairy Arm to Fan y Big.

OFFICIAL STATISTICS

Hairy Arm Fan y Big

Average house price:
£0 v £303,223
Average life expectancy:
( ) v ( )
Average annual income:
( ) v ( )

Over 10 days, we send 10 emails asking questions about your attitudes to things like health policy, immigration, travel and culture, and send you to 10 new mini-stories written by John Lanchester,

It's like an incredibly tedious Choose Your Own Adventure!

ah shit I know one of the ppl behind it & he's ok.

ah, these things happen. I wonder what the mini-stories are like... no, I mustn't.

In fairness this is only day one, it's possible you only see the full, splendid effect once it gets onto incorporating health care or immigration.

Fizzles, EAST COAST TRAINS have just told me it's LAST CHANCE again to get one of those £25 tickets to Scotland, if you're interested.

Thanks, pf!

Leafed through this in a bookshop, read the start of a chapter where one of the cornershop fellows is walking along observing western society in all its filthy lasciviousness: a poster with a women bending over and looking between her legs - advertising tampons!; a woman pushing a pram and her jogging bottoms exposing more than half of her bum! Lesbians walking dogs! Idk maybe he was aiming for a "world through someone else's eyes" effect but all the examples were so obvious, and crude, and implausible.

not that lesbians don't walk dogs.

maybe he was aiming for a "world through someone else's eyes" effect but all the examples were so obvious, and crude, and implausible

this book in a nutshell. it's that obviousness + implausibility that gets me on every page (I had a break over the weekend, back to it this evening I think), in every sentence really, on most innocuous level, like the muslim's description of his cycle ride to the mosque. You just think, congratulations you have made a dull everyday process sound totally implausible. Not in a good way.

congratulations you have made a dull everyday process sound totally implausible. Not in a good way.

If it were implausible in a good way, then it would have been entertaining. Note the subjunctive.

I've picked this up again. First sentence I read:

Mary liked change, movement, colour, walking, sex (with her husband), Ikea, going out to the pub with friends for Sunday lunch, being well-off in a pretty part of the country, being married to a man who had done well for himself (he owned a string of garages).

Yet Lanchester mauls the idea of free indirect speech like a dog a rubber ball, before dragging its useless remnants some distant to the sentence conclusion. Boring and laborious, posing inutile questions of the reader (does she prefer colour or Sunday lunch with her friends? walking to movement? change to sex with people other than her husband? ), exuding that implausibility ledge mentioned, and generally being an extraordinarily unpleasing sentence to read, and what the fuck is going on with those thoughts in parenthesis.

Yet again Lanchester mauls.

Shd probably lay off Lanchester's sentence structure if I'm going to write posts like that.

Incidentally, I don't really feel anything for any of the characters, even the nasty ones, but I do feel sorry for all of them, for being ceaselessly patronised every chapter, and for being trapped in this mindless lit fic playmobil world. I have no mouth and I must scream.

This was what Roger's deputy was thinking as he rode the train, clunketa clunketa, out to his parents' house in Godalming

Sometimes when I'm reading this book I feel I'm at the edge of sanity.

Okay, what's that aiming for? Nobody would write that except deliberately.

...working for a boss who, in Mark's considered view, was a throwback or hangover from how things used to be, a pointlessly tall, contentlessly smooth public-school twat

contentlessly.

contentlessly contentlessly contentlessly.

v good question, IK. one that I spent about five minutes considering.

a gesture towards a sort of internal joycean monologue?

a desire to vary the style a bit, mix certain background elements up?

is it actually intended to evoke, as it immediately did, a mother reading aloud to a toddler?

is this saying something not otherwise apparent from the context about the character's state of mind?

Yet it's Lanchester doing this. what's going on in that head of his?

is it a joke I'm missing? a witticism on the silliness of his journey?

tears idle tears I know not what they mean....

ty for this thread fiz

Some of the sentences make me feel slightly frightened.

and a bowl of dal, one of Rohinka's specialities, something she cooked nearly every day and never twice to exactly the same recipe.

He doesn't actually mean that I hope. I think he means it tastes a bit different each time she makes it, and the small differences in flavouring and seasoning are apparent because of the frequency with which it is cooked, so that it is never the same twice.

Or does he actually mean that she's cooked it nearly every day for however long and used a different recipe each time?

It's like being on acid or something, apparently mundane observations, objects and processes appear freakish or alarming. Otherwise graspable concepts unravel at the slightest tug and suddenly you find yourself questioning eveything about the assumptions apparently implicit in your "normal" world view. The fact it also looks like just a normal sentence is disconcerting. Maybe I am going mad, you think.

That's ok a hoy hoy - if just one person who might otherwise have read Capital decides not to as a result of this thread etc.

ye gods

Ahmed thought he could .. put out of his mind for as much as five minutes at a time the thought Hashim running up incorrect amounts on the till, taking orders for expensive part-works without getting the customer's full details, selling alcohol to fifteen-year-olds, and forgetting how to operate the lottery machine and the Oyster top-ups

how to operate the Oyster top-ups. How does one operate the oyster top-up. Gotta do your oyster top-ups innit.

Also another fucking LIST of just stuff.

otoh he can just make you snort with amusement. Rohinka is bringing food (including her wacky dal) to the table where her husband and his two brothers are sitting.

The men made varying murmurs and groans of appreciation

lol r they zombies.

Sometimes I fear I'm just attacking normal sentences, but I know now that they're all totally ersatz. Every one. Come behind the partition folks! You can see out of John Lanchester's *eyes*.

I was having a go at a dialogue this morning, and think I was being unconsciously influenced by this thread in how I approached the non-speaky parts. I tried the internal monologue thing, writing without thinking and hoping to catch my character in his banalities.

The thing is, I found it impossible to write anything like Lanchester's come up with - my character's talking to his wife while she's putting on make up, and within a couple of lines he's imagining punching her in the stomach. (apologies to Lanchester if the bits you're not copying are all like that)

no I think you're safe IK. One thing that is very noticeable about this book is that people very rarely talk to each other. certainly not without explanatory text between each line of dialogue.

Also Lanchester seems to have v peculiar form of bad writing going. It looks very much like the bad writing of someone totally inexperienced in writing. But that is not John Lanchester. How on earth did he end up here?

Sad.

I loved 'Whoops!' and was looking forward to him tackling it fictionally. Glad I didn't preorder the book, though, having read this convincing demolition

Still really dig 'The Debt to Pleasure'

http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/blog/2012/mar/19/fabrice-muamba-sir-dave-richards

I have discovered a Malcolm Bradbury volume of 1987 entitled CUTS. It appears to be the progenitor of this book.

"It was the weekly board lunch, and Lord Mellow, the board chairman, sat at the head of the long table, in his familiar bow-tie. Most of the board members, from old Lord Lenticule to the Bishop of Whiddicupthwaite, who was Eldorado's religious advisor, had struggled in, in their chauffeur-driven cars."

Fuck me.

in, in

Quite an innie, eh?

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/video/2012/mar/29/john-lanchester-london-video

"it was the peak of a bubble"

"I can't look half a century into the future of London"

I started browsing this in the bookstore and it would be my contention that he's going for a sustained note of deliberate banality. The sentence I opened it to was something like 'Zdanislaw was not of the sort to get up in arms about being paid to spend time taking down work he had just done, unlike other builders he had known.'

I think that's true. Unfortunately, it is also actually banal to read. I need to find... there were a couple of sentences, utterly innocuous in themselves, that represented the acme of reading boredom. I also think there's something incredibly patronising about the whole 'this is what normal lives look like and how normal people think'. In fact it's at the bottom of why the book is so bad.

At 11:35 the following Monday morning Trevor Banner looked out from his glass office window high above London's City area. Trevor was one of the 'Masters of the Universe', a class of men (and occasionally, but not often, women) who through their power over the banking world had gained power over the government, the city, the whole country - in fact the whole world, or even (as the term suggested) the Universe. Not that it always felt this way to Trevor, though.
'Joanne!' he shouted, impatiently. 'Where's that *coffee*?'.
Joanne was Trevor's secretary, or 'PA' (personal assistant), to use the more contemporary term that was now often used in the City.

I also think there's something incredibly patronising about the whole 'this is what normal lives look like and how normal people think'. In fact it's at the bottom of why the book is so bad.

This attitude in the author seems to say implicitly, 'I may be banging on at great length about what you already know better than I can tell you, but I am not writing a document for my own time, but for a distant posterity, who will appreciate my labors on their behalf'.

is the banality meant to be an accurate representation of anything, though? i wonder if maybe this is some grand flaubertian exercise which has been dutifully misread by the broadsheets to a marvellous degree

tbf it's not like i'm going to read the fucker to prove this

He writes enough journalism, you'd have thought he could have said somewhere 'I am writing the epic of the banality of contemporary capitalism'.

it's weird because i am sure i have read the odd author who can turn the mundane - banal is such a loaded word - into thrilling prose. not saying Lanchester is a snob. just saying.

http://gentlyread.files.wordpress.com/2011/05/166997.jpg