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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
6 of 6 people found the following review helpful
Format:Paperback
I've now read all of Glen Duncan's books except the latest (with favourite authors I always try to keep at least one in reserve). The only question I have is - why is he not feted along with lesser writers such as Will Self, Martin Amis and others? There's nothing he can't do - hyper-realism, magic realism, surrealism, realism. Every book is different from the last in terms of subject matter, but his underlying concerns remain the same; the search for love in all its forms. I think for most people this book would be a good starting point - the narrative is relatively straightforward, and the structure is pretty simple. Revel in the beauty of the prose, and the Dickensian quality of his understanding of human nature.
5 of 5 people found the following review helpful
Format:Paperback
Really poignant book flipping between the lives of father and son, how though the times have changed, God, destiny and fate plays it's funny game. Emotively written, honest and powerful - pretty much a perfect read.
2 of 5 people found the following review helpful
Format:Paperback
Many of Duncan's favourite themes - there's always that lost love, always the edge of kinkiness. Some of the most memorable and beautiful phrases in his career - Pasha 'sails his archipelago of kips', and his libidinal flag will still flutter in the right oestral breeze (or something like that). Vividly visual, and so observant, so clever ('a Radio 4-style self-congratulatory side-stepping of the obvious'). Excellent as always in conveying that peculiar ease of a good friendship. Also on the way our own egos and libidos distort our perceptions of cities, deities, activities, objects, motivating us in strange and exhilarating ways which are then lost, in a moment's Gestalt switch, forever. Anything pursued to escape the self leads back to the self. A gimlet, but forgiving, eye cast upon his parents: the way siblings all drift from mother because they have all irrevocably realised she cultivates an ugly self-pity, an apathy. The 'flotsam' of family memories. And, perhaps most importantly, being Anglo-Indian: you can really begin to flesh out that niche, sense all the boundaries of that difference. As usual - but differently - it's bleddy good.
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