Reading, reading reading….

warning - vague, dislocated, post follows, includes bloated sentences and multiple nested thoughts

Just finished The Radetzky March by Joseph Roth. Good read. Not sure why I bought it in the first place… I was attracted in the bookshop by the smart silver Penguin Modern Classics cover, the name Roth (not sure why - the Allan Ginsberg poem mentioning Rexroth [who I recently discovered is Kenneth Rexroth and not, as I had thought, Rex Roth], vague awareness of the author Philip Roth as somebody I should be vaguely aware of), the book’s title (the name of Marshal Radetzky was very familiar to me - I thought it must be from some of the Czech literature I had read, Josef Skvorecky or Jaroslav Hasek or somesuch, but looking back I realise that it was probably from learning 19th century European History for A-Level, 1848 rebellions, Lombardy Venetia and all that)

sidenote: I was thinking the other day of certain placenames that are inextricably linked in my mind - it is not possible for me to think of one without the other. Most of these came from my 19th Century European history course - Lombardy-Venetia, Latvia-Lithania-Estonia, Moldavia-Wallachia, but for some reason the names of Elsecar and Wombwell also spring to mind as an inseperable duet.

So there you have it. I bought the book. And, having bought it, I thought I ought to read it. And I did. And it was good. Not the best, but… good. A nice combination of serious literary structure and underlying meaning with general readable storyishness. The structure of the book in particular, not an aspect that I usually pay any attention to was Bach-like in its exactness. The echoes between the rigid formalities of Austro-Hungarian life and the rigid formalities of the Trotta family made for rigid but rewarding form. The overwhelming feeling of darkness and impending decay was good too. And the little section seen through the eyes of the ageing Kaiser was delightful - the epitome and figurehead of this whole tightly structured empire, enoying his day with playful childlike thoughts, brilliant.

Next on the line is number9dream by David Mitchell. I read Ghostwritten last year, and it was my most memorable book of the year (at least, as far as I remember). A couple of nights back, they announced the booker nominees on Radio 4. I listened thinking “I wonder whether there’s anyone there who I’ve been reading recently. Nah, Ian McEwen etc, OK, but then… another smattering of big names I know but am not familiar with, and a few very obscure ones. Oh, what about that bloke who wrote Ghostwritten, nah, bit of an outside chance but… wow! They just said his name!”. So after that, I couldn’t not buy it. Verdict here soon…

(Oh, and in Audiobooks, just listened to Flaubert’s Parrot by Julian Barnes. Not sure what to make of that. Think I need another listen, to fill in all the gaps during roundabouts etc., then I might have a better sense of what’s going on.)

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