Day 1,481.

I’ve read some fantastic books this year, fiction and non-fiction by some wonderful writers. One bonus about being sober is that I’ve reverted back into a bookworm again. None are addiction or sobriety related, but many have pulled me out of one mental Hell or another. This is reading for the pure joy of reading. I’ll post more reviews as time goes on, between writing addiction posts (which are as usual, sadly lacking). But I am working on my next post.

Take care all xx

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This is Michael Bracewell’s fourth novel and was published in 1989.

The main plot is simple. Three young women desire the well-bred, well-off, and good looking Miles Harrier. For all his privilege, Harrier is a nice, well-mannered, kindly soul but lacks energy, interesting thoughts or conversation. Between them, they weave a complicated dance around misguided love, awkward relationships, and desire.

It sounds simple but in this author’s hands, it isn’t.

Things get complicated (or simplified, depending on how you look at it) by the most bizarre, shocking, and amusing double-death scene I’ve ever read in a novel. It’s so darkly surprising that you can’t help but smile.

It’s a satire on how desire, good manners, relationships, and bad sex, work amongst the privileged young of London in the 1980’s. Everything is taken at surface value, looks, and a full wallet (or purse). Everything appears fabulous until our narrator exposes the flawed minds and mentalities of the characters.

Considering the privilege and fine wines, it’s an incredibly bleak tale stripped of all emotion and sentiment. It’s also very funny. My kind of book. It’s refreshing to read something that doesn’t mention social media, email, or mobile phones.

Michael Bracewell loves his descriptions: buildings, weather, clothes, food, alleyways, roads, London – and so on. They are almost extra characters in the book. And they are on every single page.

Michael Bracewell is also extremely ‘wordy.’ Possibly many, many words when one would do. His writing has been described as sometimes pompous, and I saw one review lovingly describe his writing as “up its own arse.” Each to their own.

His readership isn’t huge by any extent but he does have a loyal following of readers and adoring critics. I guess he could be described as a cult writer. Or not. Who am I to say? But he is a wonderful and brilliant writer who puts me in a strange, but good and nostalgic place when I read him.

You’ll know by the first page or two if Michael Bracewell is your kind of writer. He’s definitely mine. ‘Wordy’ descriptions and all.