That’s Why I Like Reading

I only looked into the second chapter of We Need To Talk About Kevin before I tapped the mat repeatedly . . . enough is enough. I did honestly try to dig into it but I was going nowhere at an alarming pace. It was like forcing yourself to eat; you begin to question if you actually like what you’re ingesting. I offered the book to a friend who has to return her copy to the library, she was far from eager to accept my ‘generous’ offer. She had eaten more of the book than I had and has no real urge to see if it gets better. What a shame, I guess I’ll find some other use for it, summer is almost upon us and bugs must be killed.

I’ve only read the first chapter of the now engaging novel Half Of A Yellow Sun, yet already know that I’ll likely finish the whole book in half the time it took me to read one and a half chapters of We Need To Talk About what’s his name.

The book was written by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, a female novelist whose writing style lures me in with great ease. I’m looking forward to the following chapters with expectation.

Adichie is a charming show-off.

In the first chapter she has set up an open story which may lead in several directions, subsequently removing its predictability. The reader has been convincingly sent to the early sixties, enigma floats in the air, and she has introduced a solid writing style, displayed historical, political and social knowledge, and still managed to make me laugh out loud. There was even sex . . . nothing too raunchy, but you get the impression that the book can, I might just go there. Lord knows Ugwu (the young male protagonist) wants it to go there!

I cannot relate to Ugwu’s position, but elements of his character remind me not only of my early teens, but also of my current naivety and disapproval of untimely change.

You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, neither by its first chapter, but I can see myself enjoying this novel and looking for others written by Adichie. She reminds me why I love reading. Losing yourself in a book helps you to forget about the racket going on outside (and also inside) of your head. It’s a form of escapism that allows the mind to adventure and the body to rest. Let’s see where it takes me.

A to the . . .

We Need To Talk About Your Thesaurus

Here are some of the thoughts that cross my mind when I read Lionel Shriver’s fictional novel We Need To Talk About Kevin.

Huh?

What?

What does that word even mean?

This book has had me baffled and I’ve only completed one chapter. I thought the objective of the first chapter was to reel in the reader and leave them with the desire to read on. Shouldn’t each chapter in fact fill you with that compulsion? It however seems that Shriver had a different objective in mind, ‘let me confuse any reader who hasn’t eaten an entire dictionary’.

Her frustratingly complex diction caused me to read the first chapter twice, and I am now uncertain as to whether I even wish to complete the book. Maybe chapter two has much more to offer and will leave feeling like less of a ‘dumb-head’.

Another aspect of this book that irks me is that the chapters are supposedly letters to a man who appears to be her ex-husband. I feel your pain Frankie boy . . .

Dear Franklin,

I feel dreadfully sorry for you and now understand why you left your wife. If the burden of a family trauma wasn’t enough, you also had the unwanted role of listening to a woman who speaks as though she studies the thesaurus in her spare time. Some words were not made for conversations, letters or even an academic thesis. Yet they spew from her mouth like dung from a cow’s backside. Visualise this for a second please.

Franklin, I sincerely apologise for any words I have used which may have caused you to recollect bitter memories of your beloved Eva (not Longoria unfortunately).

Yours empathetically,

Ak-Man

I’ll give Lionel Shriver (isn’t Lionel a boys name?) some credit for at least keeping the element of mystery floating in the air. The unknown parts of this book, its theme and Orange Prize for fiction in 2005 causes me to consider that maybe, just maybe this novel has more to offer than a bunch of obscure words.

Shriver shows off her flair effortlessly on occasions. Her style switches, although sometimes bothersome, can be admired in the first chapter. She flows with poise connecting technically sound paragraphs with colloquially loose phrases reminding the reader that she is not actually a robot programmed to churn out five-hundred page novels.

My plan is to get through the second chapter with the hope of being astoundingly gratified. I hope that one day the completion of this book will benefit my life. Maybe I’ll mention it in a job interview and be instantly hired. Maybe I’ll be on date with a nice lady, let’s say . . . Jessica Alba . . . I’ll mention the book and she’ll respond in a smitten like manner “I want to have your babies”. I could even use my newly acquired knowledge to run for Mayor (of London); my campaign strategy will pretty much orbit around this book. Who wouldn’t vote for me? Come on people, Ken (Livingstone) hasn’t read a damn thing in the last decade apart from Oyster Card pamphlets and Olympic Games proposals.

Only good can come from this.

A to the . . .