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

if there were ever a case for seo retrofitting ilx threads, then it would be getting some heat for this thread (which surely represents the longest sustained treatment of his work he is ever likely to receieve).......that there might be just one prominent page where this nudnik's eminent uselessness was attested to

i was just coming here to link Lanchester's Election Diary

which is, disappointingly, not that bad?

yes, it's not terrible - but he's pretty good at that sort of thing I think. I find I nurse a perverted desire for him to write more fiction.

er..http://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2015/nov/24/capital-complicated-portrait-london-john-lanchester

Wanted Fizzles to liveblog the TV prog

This might be an apposite time to start my long-delayed 'Rewrite classic openings in the style of John Lanchester' thread.

"Call me Ishmael", said Ishmael as he was woken at 6.30am by his Precision LCD Radio Controlled Clock, purchased for £19.99 from Argos.

21 year-old medical student Malachi "Buck" Mulligan walked up the stairs to the roof terrace of his 1800s Martello Tower apartment holding a bowl of shaving foam and his Gillette Fusion ProGlide with NEW Flexball Technology Manual Razor. He reminded his friend, 20 year-old fellow medical student Stephen Dedalus, of one of those priests that frequently appeared as the perpetrator of some sexual scandal on the television news programmes.

frightened to go near the tv version. however already *v much* enjoying "openings in the style of"

lol "television news programmes" is pitch perfect.

So annoying they got Toby Jones involved in this. Gotta eat I suppose.

is there any way this would function better as a TV show given the absence of Lanchester's deathless prose? it's not like I'm gonna read any version other than Fizzles's

The plot, especially the main 'mystery' is so tedious and uncompelling that I can't imagine it working on TV.

well yes, I do feel either that NV, or that tv, possibly even reasonably decent tv, kind of sops up and neutralises in the visual field much of lanchester's spectacular redundancy, which made reading Capital the equivalent of a sort of literary carpal tunnel syndrome.

the fatuous-to-the-point-of-surreal characters can get dialled down by actors and a sort of automatic validity conveyed, again, by the visual.

it feels like the badness of the prose would have to be replaced by multiple badnesses elsewhere, committed by multiple people, and surely not everything can be that bad.

xpost and yeah, the plot in Capital, such as it was, was utterly mystifying: only periodically present, totally devoid of meaning other than as a completely buggered tool cackhandedly used by Lanchester to bring about the apparently difficult or abstract concepts "beginning" and "end".

rereading this thread before Sunday gets started. definitely a Top ILB Moment. anyway I see woof called this:

Feel like this is going to be a MAJOR NEW DRAMA on BBC1 at some point.

― woof, Friday, March 9, 2012 12:22 PM (3 years ago) Bookmark Flag Post Permalink

A copy of this is now lying around in the office (nearly burst out laughing when I saw it), a manager has caught this on tv and has decided to read the book.

I am going to try and keep my fucking mouth shut.

It's when you flick through and you read the first line of each chapter, one after the other, as I did at the weekend, that you realise quite how terrible this book is, that nothing in this thread is even an exaggeration.

I did enjoy Fragrant Harbour and The Debt to Pleasure, but yeah this one is garbage, and plotless garbage at that

"On the same evening, while Anthony was brooding over the Investment Review and Alison over her daughter, Len Wincobank was lying on his dormitory bed in Block D and listening to the radio. On the walls around him, naked girls in various rude attitudes winked at him and offered themselves to him, thrusting out handsome bums and eccentrically large tits"

That's from Margaret Drabble's The Ice Age. Always nice to spot a bit of proto-Lanchester in the wild.

Len Wincobank is a white collar criminal, by the way. The book was quite prescient until I reached this chapter, which is awful.

Handsome Bums are a mix between The Stone Roses and Primal Scream with the swagger of Oasis

had to be done

By half past eight, on this same long November evening, Anthony Keating had finished his sausages, idled away half an hour with a cup of coffee, switched the radio on and off several times, and done some thinking.

I wonder if Lanchester is even conscious of the extent to which he has ripped this book off, right down to its every plodding cadence.

he might be - it might even be an explanation. i haven't read the ice age. is there any aspect of it that might make a sane person sit up and say "hey this is *good*, i shd *do* something with this"?

it doesn't sound like it.

I have read the successor to THE ICE AGE which is called THE RADIANT WAY. It is in this mode.

In a way I think it is extremely prescient of post-Thatcherite Britain. But we are conditioned now to think of the late 60s and early 70s as this very innocent, social democratic, vaguely utopian time rather than an explosion of venality and greed that came crashing to a halt, which is how Drabble, writing in the late 70s, sees it. And that's interesting from my perspective in a way that, say, Capital isn't.

You also get the sense that Drabble had been regularly reading the FT and the Economist and decided to base a novel around what she was reading, which so far happens at the expense of character. At one point an unnamed economist literally sits at a breakfast table pondering inflation. But if you were John Lanchester then I can easily imagine you putting the book down and thinking "yes, this is what literature should aspire to!"

By the way I should really post that entire quote in its own right for all its Lanchestrian awkwardness:

"By half past eight, on this same long November evening, Anthony Keating had finished his sausages, idled away half an hour with a cup of coffee, switched the radio on and off several times, and done some thinking. He thought about the nature of property, and why it was that some people considered the owning of property particularly wicked: why was it more wicked to own a strip of land with a house on it than to own a sausage, a bicycle, a secondhand fur coat, or a colour television set?"

I've just come to this straight from reading Angela Carter, who really does write some sublime sentences, and on a pure prose level it's like following up Mozart with a Chumbawumba chaser.

why was it more wicked to own a strip of land with a house on it than to own a sausage
why was it more wicked to own a strip of land with a house on it than to own a sausage
why was it more wicked to own a strip of land with a house on it than to own a sausage
why was it more wicked to own a strip of land with a house on it than to own a sausage
why was it more wicked to own a strip of land with a house on it than to own a sausage
why was it more wicked to own a strip of land with a house on it than to own a sausage
why was it more wicked to own a strip of land with a house on it than to own a sausage
why was it more wicked to own a strip of land with a house on it than to own a sausage

Can picture Keith Joseph saying that at the 1974 Tory Conference.

... eight times in a row.

I wish I could agree about Carter, but actually I often find her quite a bad, clumsy writer -- whatever her virtues as thinker, polemicist, activist, etc.

Need to get around to reading an actual Carter novel, as I thought the Bloody Chamber was p trite and agree with pinefox's views on her writing. But I feel like maybe she gets into stride in novel form?

I thought The Bloody Chamber was written well, albeit flashily

(I've only read Several Perceptions and enjoyed it a lot, including on a pure sentence level. She is flashy and self-consciously writerly but so are a lot of post-war English novelists).

I've never quite got on with Carter either (and I like lots of writers the pinefox doesn't) (and vice versa). Keep meaning to give her a more serious try; keep losing interest when I go back (Nights at the Circus is the one I pick up -- someone I was fond of long ago always said it was her favourite book, and (even tho I haven't seen this person for abt 15 years) I want to work out why.

I started Whoops! but (again)* didn't get very far -- and some of the reasons Capital is bad (as per this superb thread) also apply. JL seemed to spend a lot of time over-carefully explaining fairly simple things I already understood and then nervelessly sweeping past stuff that really needed dwelling or on getting inside. (I have a close friend who used to be a banker who agrees about this; and talking to him about the sector makes me think that Lanchester's dad's connections and understanding may well not actually give as much purchase on the finance&trading world of the early 00s as you'd expect; that banking had in some key way slipped into a new phase, and that this was what needed exploring…)

*In many ways I am the world's most distractable person when it comes to reading, probably because proofing has been my day-job for such a long time.

Greil Marcus raves about the Ice Age in Lipstick Traces, like it was some protopunk prophesy, which I always thought was odd. This seems bonkerz:

Nowhere have I found the full weight of this burden assumed with such honesty and feeling as in The Ice Age. It is a rich book, full of characters that come to life in a page and grow throughout the novel—a building contractor in the Sixties who bids to escape his class and in the Seventies finds himself in prison for fraud; a spoiled, angry teenager eager for oblivion; a classics professor retreating not only from the present but from all signs of life in the past. But its richness is not really in its plot, which centers on two people in their late 30s, Alison Murray and Anthony Keating, who are trying to build a relationship in the midst of personal disasters and public decay. The richness of the novel has to do with the way Drabble connects the private lives of her characters to the public miasma they are forced to share.

https://greilmarcus.net/2016/06/07/undercover-johnny-rottens-soul-sister-102077/

the richness of the novel has to do with the sausage

(i have not read it)

but that marcus review always struck me as a reach, given that my mum loved margaret drabble and was not a noted aficionado of post-punk style anomie

Yes bonkerz is the mot juste.
This is absurd, just as Mark S says.
One can hardly think of two writers further apart.

I suppose the explanation is

a) MD was focused on 60s-70s, a period dear to GM

b) MD was writing about 'miasma' of contemporary history, confirming GM's sense of 'art as political statement'

c) above all, crucially, MD is English and GM perhaps has a tin ear across this cultural divide -- so he imagines that MD is the English Pynchon or Gaddis or perhaps Richard Yates -- as though I were to imagine that Garrison Keillor was the US Irvine Welsh. It is surely related to the fact that Americans take Nick Hornby seriously, and take G Dyer and Z Smith (who can both be very good) more seriously than we do.

Next week: Camilla Paglia on the Orphic power of Pamela Hansford Johnson.

Having read a handful of Carter novels I am doubtful that the novel is where she does best. Her last novel, always wildly praised, is particularly bad -- perhaps in part because she was ill when writing it.

Her approach to narrative can fall in with a general tendency of chortling garrulousness that I find generally a very bad thing for fiction - as in Rushdie and even, to some extent, one of the big problems with Finnegans Wake.

When she writes differently, more starkly for instance, she can be a bit better, but she is still often surprisingly cackhanded in basic ways.

I think for me her essays might be the best work. She was a pretty important commentator on style, gender, politics, linking these things together; that work seems to have some historical importance.

But I don't know the early Bristol-based novels and maybe they have something better to recommend them.

Next week: Camilla Paglia on the Orphic power of Pamela Hansford Johnson

tbf i wd read the fuck of that (once)

out of that

I wonder if people would bother to equate them at all were it not for Joe Strummer using the phrase "the ice age" in London Calling.

oddly enough big audio dynamite is named after a novel by a.s.byatt

someone on the thread i linked to said they skimmed an interview with JL in which he said his dad was a banker -- that's all the lead i have, it may be nonsense, he may be self-taught

basically if someone is not bothering to explore or explain the bits i think need explaining then i stop reading them -- i agree this is not the same as "knowing nothing" but for my purposes it is the same as "not knowing enough", since the bits i need to learn about are the bits not yet being explained properly

i could go back and reread whoops! and report to you exactly what those are but it seems a bit pointless, as you're obviously happy with what you're getting

oops

Ilxor poster oops?