Finished reading John Banville's The Sea last night. I wanted to like it - really I did. It's not that it isn't good. It's very beautifully and poetically written; in fact, I found myself going back often and re-reading certain passages, they were so lovely. I can see why it won the Booker and heaps of other prizes and accolades.
But try as I might, I just can't get into contemporary fiction. Why? I think it's because I'm just not that interested in the banalities of other people's lives, or probing their (often grim) inner workings. The Sea, for instance, concerned a man who had recently lost his wife, returning to the Irish seaside town where he had spent time on holiday as a child. Beautifully crafted...masterful use of language...altogether very, very worthy. But I just wasn't that interested in the story.
Reading is one of my greatest pleasures, and for me, it is all about escape - the more faraway and fantastical, the better. Ordinary people, going about their ordinary lives, just don't hold much attraction for me. I get enough of that from going to work each day, watching the news, and reading the papers.
Time to go back this evening to the reassuringly firm ground of historical narrative, in Anna Pavord's The Tulip.
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