We are now Beginning our Descent

I will try to keep the lyrical references to People's Act of Love to a minimum. Although, search engines pick up terms that are repeated a certain number of times. Perhaps I should spell it incorrectly, too, to be safe? Sorry, Peoples Act of Love is the worst I can do. Don't push me. As you should have guessed, as the intelligent reader you are, We are now Beginning our Descent is written by the author of People's Act of Love, the author I wish to be and the book I wish I had written.

Lyricism done. Almost.

Right, I almost forgot: the author's name is James Meek. The photo on the inside back cover is a black and white head shot of said author with glasses and a widow's peak staring into the reader's nose. Pretentious. As befitting the author of a literary wonder (I could be referring to his other work, Drivetime. Unfortunately I'm not. I'm using up my rations fast).

I'm not the only one obsessed with said wonder. The first paragraph of his biography lists the awards that book has won. More importantly, he was (long-)listed the Booker Prize, which you may or may not know is The Award that would Define my Literary Career, long- or shortlisted, or just listed, perhaps in the same paragraph. (Short of the Nobel. Obviously.) Oh and translated into way more languages more than one person could logically speak.

In the second paragraph we get to the meaty bit. Meek was a journalist, one of that sadomasochistic breed called war reporters, in Afghanistan and Iraq. Which is the topic of the book. We are now Beginning our Descent is about a journalist stationed in Afghanistan soon after the World Trade Centre attacks. After a few pages, we realise that he is blind to many of his own feelings and suspect this will be a major plot device. You know, because of the author's subtle-ish focus on these blind spots. (Yes, that oxymoron is intentional.)

It just occurred to me: was Meek perhaps a cannibal or castrate in Siberia, or a very high and very drunk disaffected youth wandering around the United Kingdom? That's ridiculous. But, if we would have to choose one, it would be the least likely, being the former. But ridiculous. Right?

These reporters are not exactly stalking tanks (although at one point they direct one, but that's not quite the same), but they are driving to bomb sites to witness the destruction of people's lives. Coverage of which, it could be argued, is necessary to heighten people's awareness of the trauma of war. Or just redistributing the trauma. Because there's not enough of that to go around.

Anyway, as you can see, I have an Opinion about this. Which, to be honest, Meek does address briefly in his book. All muddled up in the journalists' own confused and camouflaged traumas.

That's it. We are now Beginning our Descent has this in common with People's Act of Love: My own reflection of the trauma implicit in the stories. Pinpoint reflection because I am not suggesting that anyone could understand - a sub-conscious understanding, because to know about something is not to understand - trauma like war without experiencing it. (Aside unlike the reader, the journalists choose to edge a bit closer, bringing us with them, in one of those repeating Russian-doll illusions.)

We are now Beginning our Descent is not on the scale of its towering sister, but I felt an echo of the shaking of my soul that it began. Perhaps if it had been longer, ideas rounded out or stretched more, one character in particular developed in terms of her strengths and not the flaws that made her dangerous (although, I grant you, this could be seen as another plot device, but is easily distorted into an anti-feminist statement).

Argh, almost every strength and every flaw in this novel can be justified by its themes! Meek is a very smart -manipulator - I mean, author. Events and characters are linked in a roiling mass of cause and effect. How neat! But not all of it sits right, opposite me, on the couch. I feel unsatisfied, because this mass can be mopped up into a pretty algorithm. Unsettling but ultimately pretty.

Ok, you and I both know it, I hate a satisfying novel. A novel should be tragic. Argh! And this one is! (To me.) But, here it is, it's predictable. Not the characters, but the novel. The symbolism maintained, tended like those ridiculous sculpted animal-shaped bushes. A handbook in extended metaphor and resolution. On the backs of the types of characters Meek now characteristically writes. (Should this be a flaw? Perhaps not, but I'm the reader and I don't know the man and my word rules around here.)

This post doesn't really say anything useful, I now realise, except that this may or may not be a good book depending on your reading rules - again, this says nothing! Clearly I am not myself if words fail me like this. One last try: I enjoyed reading the book, the unveiling of various emotions and one scene in particular that bursts on you mid-novel, and I empathised with the main character. I feel an echo of existential crisis. But this is no People's Act of Love. And perhaps there never will be.

Until my own. ;)