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The Dinner by [Herman Koch, Sam Garrett]

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Herman Koch

The Dinner Kindle Edition

by Herman Koch (Author), Sam Garrett (Translator) Format: Kindle Edition

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SHORTLISTED FOR THE NATIONAL BOOK AWARDS - INTERNATIONAL AUTHOR OF THE YEAR
LONGLISTED FOR THE IMPAC DUBLIN LITERARY AWARDS

The million-copy bestseller that has got everyone talking.

'A brilliantly addictive novel that wraps its hands around your throat on page one and doesn't let go' -- SJ Watson

A summer's evening in Amsterdam and two couples meet at a fashionable restaurant. Between mouthfuls of food and over the delicate scraping of cutlery, the conversation remains a gentle hum of politeness - the banality of work, the triviality of holidays. But the empty words hide a terrible conflict and, with every forced smile and every new course, the knives are being sharpened...

Each couple has a fifteen-year-old son. Together, the boys have committed a horrifying act, caught on camera, and their grainy images have been beamed into living rooms across the nation; despite a police manhunt, the boys remain unidentified - by everyone except their parents. As the dinner reaches its culinary climax, the conversation finally touches on their children and, as civility and friendship disintegrate, each couple shows just how far they are prepared to go to protect those they love.

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306 pages
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English
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Atlantic Books
Publication date

1 Aug. 2012
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1241 KB
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Review

An essential summer read Source: Independent Magazine

The talking point of the summer Source: Sunday Times

I'm confidently predicting that The Dinner will become this summer's literary talk of the town... Order yours now Author: Melanie McGrath Source: Evening Standard

Rather like The Slap it is set to become a contentious must-read. It may thrill, chill or cheat, but it is undeniably riveting Author: Arifa Akbar Source: Independent

Shivers kept shooting up my backbone as I became engrossed in Koch's darkly disturbing tale of family life... As the dinner disintegrates into mayhem, we discover just how far the middle classes will go to protect their monstrous offspring Author: Val Hennessy Source: Daily Mail

The perfect undemanding, credible, terrifying beach read Source: Financial Times

Proves how powerful fiction can be in illuminating the modern world... The best beach read of the season Source: Economist --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

From the Inside Flap

A summer's evening in Amsterdam and two couples meet at a fashionable restaurant. Between mouthfuls of food and over the polite scrapings of cutlery, the conversation remains a gentle hum of polite discourse - the banality of work, the triviality of holidays. But behind the empty words, terrible things need to be said, and with every forced smile and every new course, the knives are being sharpened. Each couple has a fifteen year old son. The two boys are united by their accountability for a single horrific act; an act that has triggered a police investigation and shattered the comfortable insulated worlds of their families. As the dinner reaches its culinary climax, the conversation finally touches on their children, and as civility and friendship disintegrates, each couple show just how far they are prepared to go to protect those they love. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

From the Back Cover

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

1 We were going out to dinner. I won’t say which restaurant, because next time it might be full of people who’ve come to see whether we’re there. Serge made the reservation. He’s always the one who arranges it, the reservation. This particular restaurant is one where you have to call three months in advance--or six, or eight, don’t ask me. Personally, I’d never want to know three months in advance where I’m going to eat on any given evening, but apparently some people don’t mind. A few centuries from now, when historians want to know what kind of crazies people were at the start of the twenty-first century, all they’ll have to do is look at the computer files of the so-called “top” restaurants. That information is kept on file--I happen to know that. If Mr. L. was prepared to wait three months for a window seat last time, then this time he’ll wait for five months for a table beside the men’s room--that’s what restaurants call “customer relations management.” Serge never reserves a table three months in advance. Serge makes the reservation on the day itself--he says he thinks of it as a sport. You have restaurants that reserve a table for people like Serge Lohman, and this restaurant happens to be one of them. One of many, I should say. It makes you wonder whether there isn’t one restaurant in the whole country where they don’t go faint right away when they hear the name Serge Lohman on the phone. He doesn’t make the call himself, of course; he lets his secretary or one of his assistants do that. “Don’t worry about it,” he told me when I talked to him a few days ago. “They know me there; I can get us a table.” All I’d asked was whether it wasn’t a good idea to call, in case they were full, and where we would go if they were. At the other end of the line, I thought I heard something like pity in his voice. I could almost see him shake his head. It was a sport. There was one thing I didn’t feel like that evening. I didn’t feel like being there when the owner or on-duty manager greeted Serge Lohman as though he were an old friend. Like seeing how the waitress would lead him to the nicest table on the side facing the garden, or how Serge would act as though he had it all coming to him--that deep down he was still an ordinary guy, and that was why he felt entirely comfortable among other ordinary people. Which was precisely why I’d told him we would meet in the restaurant itself and not, as he’d suggested, at the cafe around the corner. It was a cafe where a lot of ordinary people went. How Serge Lohman would walk in there like a regular guy, with a grin that said that all those ordinary people should above all go on talking and act as though he wasn’t there--I didn’t feel like that, either. 2 The restaurant is only a few blocks from our house, so we walked. That also brought us past the cafe where I hadn’t wanted to meet Serge. I had my arm around my wife’s waist; her hand was tucked somewhere inside my coat. The sign outside the cafe was lit with the warm red-and-white colors of the brand of beer they had on tap. “We’re too early,” I said to my wife. “I mean, if we go now, we’ll be right on time.” “My wife.” I should stop calling her that. Her name is Claire. Her parents named her Marie Claire, but in time Claire didn’t feel like sharing her name with a magazine. Sometimes I call her Marie, just to tease her. But I rarely refer to her as “my wife”--on official occasions sometimes, or in sentences like “My wife can’t come to the phone right now,” or “My wife is very sure she asked for a room with a sea view.” On evenings like this, Claire and I make the most of the moments when it’s still just the two of us. Then it’s as though everything is still up for grabs, as though the dinner date were only a misunderstanding, as though it’s just the two of us out on the town. If I had to give a definition of happiness, it would be this: happiness needs nothing but itself, it doesn’t have to be validated. “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way” is the opening sentence of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. All I could hope to add to that is that unhappy families--and within those families, in particular the unhappy husband and wife--can never get by on their own. The more validators, the merrier. Unhappiness loves company. Unhappiness can’t stand silence--especially not the uneasy silence that settles in when it is all alone. So when the bartender at the cafe put our beers down in front of us, Claire and I smiled at each other in the knowledge that we would soon be spending an entire evening in the company of the Lohmans--in the knowledge that this was the finest moment of that evening, that from here on it would all be downhill. I didn’t feel like going to the restaurant. I never do. A fixed appointment for the immediate future is the gates of hell; the actual evening is hell itself. It starts in front of the mirror in the morning: what you’re going to wear, and whether or not you’re going to shave. At times like these, after all, everything is a statement, a pair of torn and stained jeans as much as a neatly ironed shirt. If you don’t scrape off the day’s stubble, you were too lazy to shave; two days’ beard immediately makes them wonder whether this is some new look; three days or more is just a step from total dissolution. “Are you feeling all right? You’re not sick, are you?” No matter what you do, you’re not free. You shave, but you’re not free. Shaving is a statement as well. Apparently you found this evening significant enough to go to the trouble of shaving, you see the others thinking--in fact, shaving already puts you behind 1–0. And then I always have Claire to remind me that this isn’t an evening like every other. Claire is smarter than I am. I’m not saying that out of some half-baked feminist sentiment or in order to endear women to me. You’ll never hear me claim that “women in general” are smarter than men. Or more sensitive, more intuitive, that they are more “in touch with life” or any of the other horseshit that, when all is said and done, so-called “sensitive” men try to peddle more often than women themselves. Claire just happens to be smarter than I am; I can honestly say that it took me a while to admit that. During our first years together, I thought she was intelligent, I guess, but intelligent in the usual sense: precisely as intelligent, in fact, as you might expect my wife to be. After all, would I settle for a stupid woman for any longer than a month? In any case, Claire was intelligent enough for me to stay with her even after the first month. And now, almost twenty years later, that hasn’t changed. So Claire is smarter than I am, but on evenings like this, she still asks my opinion about what she should wear, which earrings, whether to wear her hair up or leave it down. For women, earrings are sort of what shaving is for men: the bigger the earrings, the more significant, the more festive, the evening. Claire has earrings for every occasion. Some people might say it’s not smart to be so insecure about what you wear. But that’s not how I see it. The stupid woman is the one who thinks she doesn’t need any help. What does a man know about things like that? the stupid woman thinks, and proceeds to make the wrong choice. I’ve sometimes tried to imagine Babette asking Serge whether she’s wearing the right dress. Whether her hair isn’t too long. What Serge thinks of these shoes. The heels aren’t too flat, are they? Or maybe too high? But whenever I do I realize there’s something wrong with the picture, something that seems unimaginable: “No, it’s fine, it’s absolutely fine,” I hear Serge say. But he’s not really paying attention. It doesn’t actually interest him, and besides, even if his wife were to wear the wrong dress, all the men would still turn their heads as she walked by. Everything looks good on her. So what’s she moaning about? This wasn’t a hip cafe; the fashionable types didn’t come here--it wasn’t cool, Michel would say. Ordinary people were by far in the majority. Not the particularly young or the particularly old--in fact, a little bit of everything all thrown together, but above all ordinary. The way a cafe should be. It was crowded. We stood close together, beside the door to the men’s room. Claire was holding her beer in one hand; with the fingers of the other she was gently squeezing my wrist. “I don’t know,” she said, “but I’ve had the impression recently that Michel is acting strange. Well, not really strange, but different. Distant. Haven’t you noticed?” “Oh yeah?” I said. “I guess it’s possible.” I had to be careful not to look at Claire--we know each other too well for that--my eyes would give me away. Instead, I behaved as though I were looking around the cafe, as though I were deeply interested in the spectacle of ordinary people involved in lively conversation. I was relieved that I’d stuck to my guns, that we wouldn’t be meeting the Lohmans until we reached the restaurant; in my mind’s eye I could see Serge coming through the swinging doors, his grin encouraging the regulars above all to go on with what they were doing and pay no attention to him. “He hasn’t said anything to you?” Claire asked. “I mean, you two talk about other things. Do you think it might have something to do with a girl? Something he’d feel easier telling you about?” Just then the door to the men’s room opened and we had to step to one side, pressed even closer together. I felt Claire’s beer glass clink against mine. “Do you think it has something to do with girls?” she asked again. If only that were true, I couldn’t help thinking. Something to do with girls . . . wouldn’t that be wonderful, wonderfully normal, the normal adolescent mess. “Can Chantal/Merel/Rose spend the night?” “Do her parents know? If Chantal’s/Merel’s/Rose’s parents think it’s okay, it’s okay with us. As long as you remember . . . as long as you’re careful when you . . . ah, you know what I mean . . . I don’t have to tell you about that anymore. Right? Michel?” Girls came to our house often enough, each one prettier than the next. They sat on the couch or at the kitchen table and greeted me politely when I came home. “Hello, Mr. Lohman.” “You don’t have to call me Mr. Lohman. Just call me Paul.” And so they would call me “Paul” a few times, but a couple of days later it would be back to “Mr. Lohman” again. Sometimes I would get one of them on the phone, and while I asked if I could take a message for Michel, I would shut my eyes and try to connect the girl’s voice at the other end of the line (they rarely mentioned their names, just plunged right in: “Is Michel there?”) with a face. “No, that’s okay, Mr. Lohman. It’s just that his cell phone is switched off, so I thought I’d try this number.” A couple of times, when I came in unannounced, I’d had the impression that I’d caught them at something, Michel and Chantal/Merel/Rose: that they were watching The Fabulous Life on MTV less innocently than they wanted me to think--that they’d been fiddling with each other, that they’d rushed to straighten their clothes and hair when they heard me coming. Something about the flush on Michel’s cheeks--something heated, I told myself. To be honest, though, I had no idea. Maybe nothing was going on at all, maybe all those pretty girls just saw my son as a good friend: a nice, rather handsome boy, someone they could show up with at a party--a boy they could trust, precisely because he wasn’t the kind who wanted to fiddle with them right away. “No, I don’t think it’s got anything to do with a girl,” I said, looking Claire straight in the eye now. That’s the oppressive thing about happiness, the way everything is out on the table like an open book: if I avoided looking at her any longer, she’d know for sure that something was going on--with girls, or worse. “I think it’s more like something with school,” I said. “He’s just done those exams; I think he’s tired. I think he underestimated it a little, how tough his sophomore year would be.” Did that sound believable? And above all: did I look believable when I said it? Claire’s gaze shifted quickly back and forth between my right and my left eye; then she raised her hand to my shirt collar, as though there were something out of place there that could be dealt with now, so I wouldn’t look like an idiot when we got to the restaurant. She smiled and placed the flat of her hand against my chest; I could feel two fingertips against my skin, right where the top button of my shirt was unbuttoned. “Maybe that’s it,” she said. “I just think we both have to be careful that at a certain point he doesn’t stop talking about things. That we get used to that, I mean.” “No, of course. But at his age, he kind of has a right to his own secrets. We shouldn’t try to find out everything about him--then maybe he’d clam up altogether.” I looked Claire in the eye. My wife, I thought at that moment. Why shouldn’t I call her my wife? My wife. I put my arm around her and pulled her close. Even if only for the duration of this evening. My wife and I, I said to myself. My wife and I would like to see the wine list. “What are you laughing about?” Claire said. My wife said. I looked at our beer glasses. Mine was empty; hers was still three-quarters full. As usual. My wife didn’t drink as fast as I did, which was another reason why I loved her, this evening perhaps more than other evenings. “Nothing,” I said. “I was thinking . . . I was thinking about us.” --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

Review

Perfect… Terrifying --Financial Times

The talking point of the summer --Sunday Times

A family drama replete with surprises, so it is important not to give away too much of the plot here. It is enough to say that Mr Koch seizes his readers by the ear, and with a sharp pinch pulls their sympathies this way and that... Proves how powerful fiction can be in illuminating the modern world... The reader does not rise from his table happy and replete so much as stand up suddenly, pale and reeling. Bored with Fifty Shades of Grey and all that brouhaha? Read The Dinner - and taste the shock. --The Economist --This text refers to the paperback edition.

Book Description

A phenomenon that has sent shockwaves across Europe, The Dinner will be the talking point of the summer.

'Funny, provocative and exceedingly dark, this is a brilliantly addictive novel that wraps its hands around your throat on page one and doesn't let go.' SJ Watson

--This text refers to the paperback edition.

From the Author

Herman Koch, born in 1953, is a Dutch writer. He was a renowned television actor on the series Jiskefet and a former columnist for the newspaper Volkskrant. The Dinner is his sixth novel and has already won the prestigious Publieksprijs Prize in 2009. Herman Koch currently lives in Amsterdam. --This text refers to the paperback edition.

About the Author

Herman Koch, born in 1953, is a Dutch writer. He was a renowned television actor on the series Jiskefet and a former columnist for the newspaper Volkskrant. The Dinner is his sixth novel and has already won the prestigious Publieksprijs Prize in 2009. Herman Koch currently lives in Amsterdam. --This text refers to the paperback edition.

ASIN ‏ : ‎ B008DSEF6Q
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Atlantic Books; Main edition (1 Aug. 2012)
Language ‏ : ‎ English
File size ‏ : ‎ 1241 KB
Text-to-Speech ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Screen Reader ‏ : ‎ Supported
Enhanced typesetting ‏ : ‎ Enabled
X-Ray ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Word Wise ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Print length ‏ : ‎ 306 pages

Best Sellers Rank: 38,936 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- 99 in Literary Satire Fiction
- 168 in Lawyers & Criminals Humour
- 169 in Self-Help & Psychology Humour

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Herman Koch

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Herman Koch (Dutch pronunciation: [ˈɦɛrmɑn kɔx]; born 5 September 1953) is a Dutch writer and actor. He has written short stories, novels, and columns. His best-selling novel The Dinner (2009) has been translated into 21 languages. He has acted for radio, television, and film. He co-created the long-running TV series Jiskefet (1990–2005).

Bio from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Photo by Vera de Kok (Own work) [CC BY 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.

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Kindle Customer

An intelligent read

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 29 October 2018

Verified Purchase

First off, if you only like to read about empathetic characters and happy endings don't read this book. The writer doesn't want us to "bond" with any particular character, take sides or hope it all "works out". It is possible to thoroughly enjoy a book without doing any of these things. The best books make us think, even if it's disturbing or uncomfortable thinking. This is one such book. The drama is slow burning but intense. Despite what some critics have implied, there is no extraneous matter. The plot is tightly woven and everything is relevant. While the plot and characterisation may be a commentary on bourgeois middle-class values it is so much more. It is a commentary on humanity itself.

7 people found this helpful

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We need to talk about Michel...

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 22 June 2015

Verified Purchase

Paul and Claire meet for dinner with Paul's brother Serge and his wife Babette quite often, and Paul usually finds them uncomfortable occasions, having a contempt born out of jealousy for his brother's successful political career. But on this occasion, things are more tense than usual because the two families need to talk about an incident involving their children. When it becomes obvious they're not going to agree on how to handle the situation, the tension begins to grow and the conventions of polite behaviour begin to fall apart. The question the book asks is - how far would you go to protect your children?

The book gets off to a flying start, with some great observational humour as Paul, the narrator, looks forward apprehensively to the evening ahead. Koch is great at 'showing' rather than 'telling' and we learn as much about Paul's relationship with his wife and brother from reading between the lines as from what he actually says. But this is only the first layer of the onion - as the book progresses, outward appearances are stripped away until eventually each character is laid bare to us in all their prejudices and flaws. And a pretty unsavoury bunch they are, with Paul himself turning out to be far more complex than he gives us to believe at the beginning. The whole thing slowly becomes very dark, and though it's clearly heading for a dramatic climax, it's not at all obvious what that will be until it arrives.

I read Koch's Summer House with Swimming Pool a few months ago and thoroughly enjoyed it. The twisted morality and dark storyline mixed with some great black humour to make an enjoyable and thought-provoking read. The focus was on the father and asked the same question - what would you do to protect your children? I've noticed that many people who read The Dinner first found Summer House a bit disappointing because it trod a similar path. Reading them in reverse, I found The Dinner a little disappointing for the same reason.

The Dinner is one of those books where it's important to know as little as possible going in to get the full effect of the various surprises, so I'll say no more about the plot. But there were a couple of other things that made me like it a little less than Summer House. Though there is some good observational humour in The Dinner, it doesn't have quite the edge as in Summer House. In it, the humour is often cruel, but wickedly close to what we maybe all think but don't say from time to time - and then feel appalled at ourselves for thinking it. In this one, I didn't get that feeling of delicious recognition and guilt - the humour was more straightforward. But the big difference - and I'll have to be a little oblique to avoid spoilers - is that there is some small degree of moral justification for the actions in Summer House, but absolutely none that I could accept in The Dinner. Therefore while I had some sympathy for some characters in Summer House, I had none at all for any of them in The Dinner.

But the mild disappointment in this one is only because of the comparison. In itself, this is a good dark psychological thriller, where the quality of the writing and characterisation helps to get the reader past the lack of credibility at some parts of the story - for most of the time. Personally, I found the ending asked me to suspend my disbelief a little too much, but this didn't destroy my enjoyment of the book overall. The translation from the original Dutch is again by Sam Garrett, who does another very fine job with it. I'll be interested to see where Koch's dark imagination takes us in future...

9 people found this helpful

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Geoff Crocker

A thriller and a compelling lament

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 9 October 2019

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This is a gripping and very readable thriller, within which Herman Koch compellingly presents, maybe even laments i) the shallow, pretentious nature of contemporary post-modern social and political culture, where image trumps content, ii) the primitive violent anger inherent in human nature, and iii) the equally primitive parental urge to protect their own children, regardless of any enlightenment ethic

This is all perceptive comment for reflection, and taken alone could easily lead to despair. But Koch’s account lacks any inclusion of human virtue which might restore some hope in our ontology, our behavioural options, and our human future.

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Martin Grundy

See If You Can Predict How the Story Will End

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 21 November 2014

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This 21st century novel is set in the Netherlands and was originally written in Dutch, but the translation is so good that you would never know (except for the references to Dutch places and culture).

The courses of a meal in a restaurant are used as the framework for flashbacks that gradually reveal the history and relationships of those eating the meal, and of their families. This technique is very skilfully used to tantalise the reader with hints and suggestions, but not in an annoying way. Be assured that the author explains everything in the end.

Although the action essentially takes place in a single evening, this is by no means a short story and the flashbacks range widely over the recent and the more distant past. It certainly keeps you guessing and wanting to read on to find out more.

My only very minor criticisms are that none of the characters is very likeable, the narrator does not seem to have any way of earning a living (although he is not short of money) and the ending is a little abrupt. However, I recommend ignoring these insignificant drawbacks and seeing if you can predict how the story will end.

The eBook is of a good quality with only a small handful of errors that should have been weeded out during proof reading.

7 people found this helpful

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Rachel

Disappointing

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 8 November 2013

Verified Purchase

I'm not sure I really liked this book. I picked it up because I enjoyed the sound of a novel taking place over a short period of time - in the case a meal in a restaurant. However, it takes a long while to get into the discussion of the point of the meal and even then very little is made from it. There is too much discussion of the food itself and descriptions of the surroundings and irrelevant people to the plot. Many things were alluded to such as a heredity disease one of the fathers had, and one of the mothers was in hospital was in hospital for a period of time without actually mentioning what was wrong. This really annoyed me as it seemed relevant to the plot in places and therefore needed to be explained further.

The main aspect of the plotline related to violence but the author almost seemed to trivialise it as lot of it (including the main violent act which is the main focus of the plot), seemed to be swept under the carpet quickly and the author then moved on to more trivial aspects. The ending I think was meant to be a shock to show how far parents would go to protect their child but is just seemed wrong and very much out of the blue and again over in less than a chapter. It was very disappointing and wouldn't make me want to read anything else by Herman Koch.

5 people found this helpful

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