This is my review of The Lighthouse (SALT MODERN FICTION) by Alison Moore.

In an attempt to take his mind off his failed marriage, the oddly named Futh (this appears to be both a German surname and urban slang) leaves England for a short walking holiday along the Rhine, but this only gives him too much time to brood on his sad childhood, dominated by his mother leaving home when he was about twelve. On his first evening at the ominous-sounding Hellhaus – literally "light house" – Hotel, Futh meets Ester with a parallel tale of an unhappy marriage and the price of passive acceptance of life.

In deceptively simple, plain and painstaking, unpretentious prose, Alison Moore dissects Futh's appearance, his thoughts, motivations, the events which have shaped him. All this is conveyed through his memories, behaviour, conversations with others, so we may come to different conclusions since the author never tells us what to think. Even the dramatic climax is ambiguous.

I believe the author has had success writing short stories, and this is very evident in the way that most incidents are like small, self-contained stories in their own right. In what is still a relatively short first novel, Moore has managed to produce what proves to be a tightly-structured overarching narrative, even if Futh seems to be bumbling around, often lost, much of the time.

Some readers have found Futh intolerably dull and the novel too mundane, but you could argue that the whole point is to make a very ordinary and in some ways unappealing man the subject of a story which may have all the pathos and ironical chain of cause and effect of a more flamboyant tragedy. Moore displays the power of an understated story, on a par with a first-rate minimalist painting or musical score.

There is perhaps a little too much symbolism e.g. the heavy use made of Muriel Spark's description of "the tall lighthouse sending out kindly beams which some took for welcome instead of warnings against the rocks" or the Venus flytraps. I admit this is not a page-turner, except towards the end when I knew that the "something bad" indicated at the beginning was about to occur. If you like action-packed thrillers or romance, this is not the book for you. It is also deeply sad, definitely not "feel-good", although Futh's continual failures – even the ducks don't want to eat his bread- is just about saved from becoming unendurable through the narrator's frequent flashes of wry humour. At times, I was reminded of Mr. Bean.

I agree that it is hard to believe that Angela would marry a man like Futh, but since she is seen through his eyes, we know he is too damaged himself to be capable of empathising with her or grasping the complexity of the emotions which drove her to marry him. In the same way, his perception of his relationship with Kenny is clouded by his own emotional stunting. All this may demonstrate the subtlety of Moore's writing, when you pause to think about it.

I admire this novel without much liking it, and suggest it as a good choice for a book group if you are interested in discussing the craft of writing, debating what makes a good ending, and understanding polarised viewpoints.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 5 Stars

This is my review of Swimming Home by Deborah Levy.

A beautiful, mentally sick young woman is caught swimming naked in the pool of a French villa rented by a famous poet, his dysfunctional little family, his wife's old school friend and her unappealing husband. Why is the young woman invited to stay when this is so clearly unwise? Just what form will the inevitable resultant tragedy take? Or will it simply prove to be a lightweight farce?

Although this may not be an entirely original scenario, there is plenty of scope for a compelling drama for which the author creates a cast of potentially interesting characters. The plot is revealed obliquely, in short chapters with continually changing viewpoints, disjointed scenes like fragments of glass which are often quite surreal. This approach may be what led to the Man Booker shortlisting, but combined with a style that flits in a sometimes jarring fashion between parody and caricature, psychological drama and even a touch of magic realism, the result left me feeling unengaged with and unmoved by the main characters, although I thought the adolescent Nina and the lonely old doctor observing them all from her balcony were well drawn.

At first, I was annoyed by the author's habit of telling the reader too soon and too baldly what is going to happen. I later realised that she is often setting red herrings in our path, which could be quite clever, except that the climax proves too abrupt and inadequately foreshadowed and explained. Then the final chapter seems too much of a sentimental footnote.

I think the book may improve on a second reading, but it was seriously marred for me by a lack of subtlety in the development and some surprisingly gauche prose, which read as if the author wrote what first came into her head without any reflection and redrafting. These factors would have caused me to give up midway if the novel had not been so short and Booker-listed. I believe that Deborah Levy has achieved success as a playwright and perhaps this story would work well on the stage, although it would be hard to create the sets for some of the locations which add flavour to the story.

⭐⭐⭐ 3 Stars

This is my review of The Map of Love by Ahdaf Soueif.

Lonely and at a loose end after her return to Cairo, Amal assists the thirty-something American Isabel Parkman to translate some of the papers left by her great-grandmother Lady Anna Winterbourne who married an Egyptian nationalist a century before at a time of great political unrest when Egypt was still "under the yoke" of the British Empire. Fascinated by Anna, Amal begins to reconstruct her story, although it is often hard to know where fantasy ends and real scenes from the past begin. To a lesser extent, she applies the same approach to Isabel's meetings with Amal's suave elder brother with whom she is becoming infatuated.

The prospect of gaining a perspective on Egyptian history and politics seen through the eyes of an Egyptian woman, the author Ahdaf Soueif, is what drew me to this book, although I agree that the combination of somewhat soft-centred romance with serious historical and political comment may cause it to fall between two stools. The theme of examining love affairs between different cultures across generations against a complex political background is very ambitious, and perhaps the price paid is that the reader's attention is stretched over too many people, rather than engaged with a few fully developed central characters.

The author's style may be typically middle eastern and therefore all part of the experience to be gained, but I found my growing impatience with it a real barrier to reading the book. Despite my strong desire to like this novel, I felt smothered by its embroidered wordiness, the often banal dialogues and overdetailed descriptions as a substitute for dramatic action, the convoluted structure clanking back and forth in time. At one point Soueif goes off at a tangent on the nature of colour and the impossibility of defining the point at which, say, blue becomes green. Why not simply express this fascinating idea in a few pithy words on the lines of, "How strange that one cannot see exactly when blue turns into green"?

This is, as a reviewer described another of her books, an acquired taste. If you enjoy long, slow, rambling, gentle even in the midst of violence, reflective family sagas with frequent little digressions this may well appeal. Also, apart from its length, this could be a good choice for a book group as it provides scope for discussion of both plot and style, and is likely to divide opinion.

⭐⭐⭐ 3 Stars

This is my review of A New Life (Penguin Twentieth Century Classics) by Bernard Malamud.

I owe my discovery of Bernard Malamud to Jonathan Raban's quotations in "Driving Home" from "A New Life" to capture vivid impressions of the landscape in the area round Seattle, such as the wide skies in which the clouds are "a clash of horses and volcanoes".

Drawing on his own experience of working in Oregon Community College, Malamud introduces us to city bred Levin, who tries to escape from New York, where a sense of failure drove him to drink, by seeking a new life teaching English in the parochial world of a vocational college in the mythical state of Cascadia. Malamud describes with wry humour Levin's frustration over being forced to teach grammar from the soul-destroying primer which has enriched the ageing head of department who is so dime-pinching with his staff.

After a halting and wimpish start, Levin begins to gain confidence, but it is not until events begin to unravel that he realises that he has lost the sense of "being in control" which he briefly enjoyed. We sense from the outset that things are unlikely to work out well for the accident-prone, awkward Levin. Acute loneliness will drive him to unwise liaisons, and his desire to achieve something in his life will cause him to stand out from the herd at the wrong time and in the wrong way. Yet, by describing Levin's personality and thoughts in such detail, Malamud brings him alive as a man for whom we can often feel sympathy, even respect.

"Flight flew in him. He wasn't fleeing yet fled, unable to determine whom he was running from, himself or X. He blamed the flight, paradoxically a pursuit of feeling, on the fact that too much had happened in too short a time."

Published in 1961, the writing is on the cusp between an older style of presenting events in strict order, with detailed explanations, and a more modern directness about e.g. sex, and passages of near poetry, with a touch of "stream of consciousness". Malamud has a knack for comical situations, all the more so for being unexpected, his dialogues are realistic, and his observation of people razor sharp.

In the well-constructed plot, incidents along the way return to haunt Levin, creating at times a real sense of tension. You know that the most you can hope for is a bittersweet ending, but you care about Levin and want him to achieve a new life, even if not what he had planned.

This is a true classic, one of the novels worth keeping to reread and extract all Malamud's wisdom. I think he may be one of the greatest C20 American writers, yet one of those most at risk of being forgotten.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 5 Stars

This is my review of Mrs Palfrey At The Claremont: A Virago Modern Classic (Virago Modern Classics) by Elizabeth Taylor.

This well-structured tale of an elderly widow seeing out her days in the 1960s as one of a group of lonely and under-occupied paying guests at a London Hotel may not sound a very engaging theme. Everything hinges on Elizabeth Taylor's renowned skill as a novelist. From the outset I was struck by examples of her original, acerbic wit, and strong sense of the humour of the incongruous. We are told that our heroine Mrs Palfrey "would have made a distinguished-looking man and sometimes, wearing evening dress, looked like some famous general in drag." She had a "magnificent calm" and was "unruffled" to find her first home as a young bride "more than damp" from the floods "with a snake wound round the banisters to greet her".

Depressed but stoical in the company of the small-minded, gossipy group of paying guests, who tend to use cruelty, alcohol or eavesdrop "with ears sharpened by malice" to assuage their own loneliness, Mrs Palfrey is saved by a chance meeting with Ludo, a charming and essentially decent young penniless writer. For all her conventional past, Mrs Palfrey is attracted by the young man's natural sense of mischief and vitality, without losing her commonsense. United by a surprising and unexpected friendship, they do each other good turns, although would Mrs Palfrey be quite so well-disposed to Ludo if she knew she was a source of notes for his first novel based on her own comment on the Claremont Hotel, "We aren't allowed to die here"?

The book is inevitably a little dated in reflecting the prejudices of early sixties Britain, but any real weakness lies in scenes like the fraught drinks party which descends into pure farce. Although witty, this lacks the subtle observations and real insights into the mixture of small joys, sorrows and missed opportunities of ordinary life which mark most of the novel.

Despite the room for optimism in an ending which leaves something to your imagination, this is a sad book. It is not only a portrayal of old age as a time when one feels useless, superfluous and often in pain, but also a comment on how an exaggerated concern with convention and respectability can limit one's life unduly. Elizabeth Taylor died comparatively young in her early sixties, and was perhaps glad to escape the darker or drearier aspects of ageing.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 5 Stars