Earlier this month I was holiday. When I go away I try and match my reading to my destination, which this year was up the Norwegian coast and into the Arctic circle. So when a few months ago I saw a novel called
Ice by Anna Kavan, an author I didn't know, I had to have it, and the same with
The Idea of North, a kind of extended think-piece by Peter Davidson about the meanings and emotions we ascribe to northern latitudes.
Fortunately, I didn't have a lot of time for reading while I was away.
If anyone wants to have a definition of a Literary Novel,
Ice, written in 1967, is it. Some wonderful imagery and turns of phrase, but no plot; set in a never-identified or identifiable world, peopled with characters without names or personalities, with things happening without relevance to the non-plot, dei ex machina forever cropping up to allow more things to happen, other things happening which didn't happen but were only imagined or envisaged or hallucinated or... well... I've no idea. The first person narrator spends the novel pursuing -- and alternately wanting to love and to hurt -- a vulnerable and pathetic (in both senses of the word) woman who is repeatedly lusted after, hurt and abducted by other men, while the war-torn world around them turns to ice, and everyone and everything is doomed. It's doubtless all very allegorical and clever -- the cover quotes praise from Brian Aldiss and JG Ballad -- but for me, simply wanting a good read, it was akin to listening to a poetic bore re-telling his latest nightmare. Impenetrable and baffling; its only saving grace its brevity, at a scant 180 pages.
So far -- which isn't very far at all as I can't get on with it --
The Idea of North is no better. Basically, it's a long-winded rummaging through a lot of writings, ancient and modern, seemingly quoting anything with the word "north" in it, or which is written about or by someone in or in any way however remotely connected with, northern countries, no matter how contradictory in tone or content with the other quoted extracts, and with way too much self-conscious and self-indulgent musing interrupting the few interesting bits. As ever -- and as with
Ice -- I was beguiled by a beautiful cover and some admiring quotes. One day, I'll learn that if the Guardian praises something, it's likely not anything I'll enjoy.
On getting home I returned to and finished
Land of the Headless by Adam Roberts, and I've done a short review of it
here.