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3.8 out of 5 stars
3.8 out of 5 stars
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on 19 July 2006
Have you ever had a feeling of de ja vu where you wished you could grab that moment, cling on to it and relish its every detail, but no matter how hard you try, it's gone?

The narrator of Tom McCarthy's brilliant `Remainder' feels false and unnatural after recovering from an accident that has left him having to relearn his motor functions and a compensation package of eight-and-a-half million pounds. One evening he is struck by a clear memory of a time he can't specify, which evokes a feeling calm and fluid reality in him. He decides to utilise his newfound wealth in an attempt to recreate that precise moment, complete with the perfect building (which he has designed to his specifications by a set designer) and the neighbours he was conscious of in this flash of recall (played by actors which the narrator calls `re-enactors'). He repeatedly re-enacts his moments in an attempt to regain the feeling he was aware of in that moment of de ja vu. Our hero becomes obsessed with re-enacting: first incidents in which he featured, then incidents he witnessed (where he takes on roles as a `re-enactor'), finally, he creates an event of his own design and, after many rehearsals, puts it into practice in the `real' world, with violent and disastrous consequences and, in a rather neat way, a resolution for the narrator.

McCarthy's protagonist is insane; but sympathetic, cold; yet human. The novel's climax has an almost anti-climactic calm that left me bewildered and satisfied. It was so easy to fall into the mindset of the hero, that I have found myself grasping at moments of de ja vu with a fresh vigour. It strikes me as a book about our perceptions of self, reality... and perhaps narrative. There is such a depth to this novel that it deserves re-reading and I look forward to returning to this moment of enjoyable engrossment again... and probably again...

This novel has a really edgy intelligence to it and it has the smell of cult classic wafting from its binding - read it now, before everyone else does!
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on 25 May 2012
I have never read a book like this one. You cannot get it out of your head and it really does make you start to look at the world differently.

I read this on regular half-hour train journeys and, each time, when I arrived at the destination I didn't want to tear myself away from it. And when I did and finally stepped out into the Railway Station I viewed everyone in a completely different way and began seeing things previously unnoticed. No-one else around me seemed to be taking anything seriously - until I realised that everyone else was behaving normally and it was just me that had been reprogrammed. Another reviewer mentioned that the book `got under their skin' - it does just that. All of a sudden, every action, little task or movement takes on greater import.

The only disappointment was the ending, where the whole bizarreness just got to be a bit too much. But by that time the book had already altered my mind. It was too late for me.
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on 24 March 2015
In the run-up to McCarthy's recent Satin Island, I thought I'd revisit his debut avant garde piece. Like all seminal fiction, it doesn't feel a day old and while I have my reservations on its repeat value, it's a confident, original performance on the written page that deserves soaking a few of your mortal hours in.

In a post-coma world, one man tries to recreate the pre-coma normal consciousness of an experienced moment. He has come into a sizeable settlement from the accident of 8.5 millions and he wants to pump it into recreating the taken-for-granted moment-to-moment perception-and-sensation loaded reality. It's his key to feeling real once again.

It's a thoroughly imaginative semantic exercise: in our protagonist's expositions to the baffled hearers of his scheme, we hear him articulate notions of fluency and fluidity of moving through the world as the one thing that separates his new, detached, learned-but-contrived self from the people around.

This deeply felt void of consciousness leads him to kickstart a series of re-enactment experiments where we see him trying to recreate whole physical environments to simulate random pre-and post-accident events from memory. With an almost inexhaustible stash of funds, he manages to mobilise a battalion of actors, designers, property developers, construction crew to actuate his schemes and the rest of the book chronicles his frustrations at getting these experiments just right, just real enough. He is seen moving himself and his employed army in that crepuscular zone between enacting and living, as he becomes obsessed with the idea of embodiment.

This deranged enterprise, while on one level hilarious in laying bare the endless possibilities with cash in hand in today's world, is at another level achingly tragic as we see this one man's bottomless thirst to recreate a moment of rapture that for us, i.e. normal, neurologically intact readers would be a disposable everyday moment. When you read him wax eloquent about this instant as a tingling rising from the base of spine, usurping the whole body and rendering it weightless, then spreading its "edges out until it became a still pool swallowing everything up in its contentedness", your empathic self can't help but be exalted in the narrator's abstraction, be edified by the the relativism in spiritual currency and be completely convinced about all his actions to achieve this transcendental climax in an Everyday Instant.

Other than the take-a-bow-worthy subtextual and textual density, the beautiful juxtaposition of neurological rehabilitation of motor control with a philosophical enquiry, it's disappointing that the same multi-level syntactical and thematic synaesthesia that enthralls you also drags the book down in its later pages as the narrator develops a moment-creation fetish and keeps his comfortably-facilitated and funded affairs going and going. You empathise with the aphrodisiac effect for this irreparably broken man of that intact apogee of consciousness called the Moment, but the particularities that are pursued in rigour and discipline of short, brick-like phrases to execute the giant experiments on the page do exasperate. By design, this is a challenging book to read, hence I give you my reserved recommendation, but the boundary-pushing work does provide many moments of sublimity and a taster for what makes McCarthy one of the best living contemporary authors.
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TOP 1000 REVIEWERon 6 October 2009
This novel was greeted by so much hype from the critics that I was dismayed on reading it to find it was full of substance, colour, light and energy but with a profound vacancy at its heart. On an ordinary day and to an ordinary man a terrible accident occurs that robs him of most of his memory. Only fragments of it return, but he is compensated for the accident (about which he can remember nothing) to the tune of eight million pounds.

The protagonist, who has a flat, affectless, totally amoral personality, perhaps as a result of his accident, becomes obsessed with recreating, first of all, moments from his past, and secondly, with new moments. And these are, literally, moments: coming down a staircase and seeing an old woman moving a bag of rubbish; listening to someone playing a piano; looking out of a window and seeing some black cats resting on red roof tiles - their very banality and the intensity with which he experiences them are puzzling and seem to lead precisely nowhere. We learn nothing about his life prior to the accident and he seems to have no family and a few friends, who, in any case, soon abandon him or are abandoned by him.

But then he becomes interested in recreating moments that have happened since the accident - and one of them involves a bank heist, during which things get a little more interesting.

Looking for a clue in the title, I wondered if the writer was trying to suggest something about the philosophical problem of memory itself, since any memory is changed by the act of remembering. He is trying to recreate himself by repeating images that in some way moved him or made him feel safe or contented, but he's doomed from the start, since what remains from repeating an action is a faraway echo of the original feelings. If I go back to the place I lived in as a child I do not become that child again, except, perhaps, in a fleetingly imaginative sense and one wonders how such a momentary effect could possibly be worthwhile. One of the most interesting facets of memory is how it is changed by what we invest in it - and that sometimes involves us in trying to understand more about ourselves as human beings than is ever entirely comfortable or easy. None of the insights our protagonist gains seem to give him much insight into his past. One quickly begins to wonder what the writer wants to convey. It seems muddled and muddied to me.

Tom McCarthy goes for amorphous effects unconnected to thought, such as a tingling in his arm when something seems authentic, and although his writing is the fine stuff of a highly literate practitioner, the novel ultimately dissolves in its own solipsism.
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on 11 September 2007
Tom McCarthy's Remainder occupies the same territory as Rupert Thompson's fascinating The Insult and is also reminiscent of the work of Paul Auster. A bizarre premise - in this case, a man left with no memory but an awful lot of money after an accident, who systematically seeks to re-enact actually experienced and/or imagined mundane scenarios - gradually comes to seem artlessly plausible, due to the absence of affect in both the writing and the central character. His abstruse quest for the real in the patently artificial operates as a nice critique of what Jean Baudrillard calls the hyper-real, yet also offers a fascinating parallel with the spiritual meditative practice of "being in the moment" through mindfulness. The book most reminded me of Sebastian Beaumont's Thirteen, the story of a taxi driver who reaches into his own psyche not by obsessively repeating minute actions but by quite literally driving himself into exhaustion. Beaumont's "other world" is less polemical, but more darkly fascinating and plot driven, than McCarthy's. Thirteen is a Remainder with go-faster stripes. The two books have a different feel, and attempt different things, but both come highly recommended.
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on 8 March 2016
This book follows a story about a man who, after an accident lost his memory, but received 8.5 mil £ from insurance. Excellent idea, marvellous introduction and excellent first 50 pages evolve into a nightmare of a sociopath. The book was a readers’ club topic, so, instead of reading translation, I bought a copy in English. After reading it, I felt such disgust that I considered leaving the readers’ club. If the author’s intention was that his readers feel bad - he was successful. If literature is going to be either a shallow romance/thriller bestseller branch or a nausea causing novels like this one, I will have problems. And a lot of people who still read books.
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on 1 April 2016
Unfortunately one of the worst books I have ever read. I managed to get about half-way through the novel before I had to give up. The story in itself sounds intriguing but instead comes across as flat and boring. The protagonist is extremely irritating and sociopathic. It's a shame the object that hit his skull, didn't kill him.
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on 26 June 2007
This is the kind of book that having read it keeps coming back to mind. I'm not quite sure why but it has the quality of somehow altering your perspective on the world for a short while. For that alone its definitely worth a read.
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on 18 June 2008
I wanted (and want) to like this book more than I do. While I thought the premise quite original, and devoured the first 1/3 of the book in one sitting, I found myself becoming bored and - in the last 1/3 - not caring WHAT happened to Mr. McCarthy's protagonist. Quite frankly, I'm just not sure why. But the answer to that question is what prevents this from being (for me) a true classic. Like many of the other reviewers, I've given it 3 stars for the idea - but the execution of that idea just didn't work. Sorry.
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on 17 April 2011
Judging by most of the reviews that have already been written for 'Remainder', it seems to be a simple case of you get it or you don't get it, you like it or you don't like it. Rather than attribute this to the author, I think the burden of proof lies in the reader.

I read the book in one sitting and I must admit, it played with my mind a little. I didn't start re-enacting events, but it effectively isolated me from normal human intercourse when I emerged from my room. What the book does is re-wire the expectations of the average reader, since the events that take place are not the same as in a 'normal' novel. Naturally, if the reader comes to the book having read the glowing reviews about the unconventionality of 'Remainder', they may well be disappointed when they realise that it isn't hugely different. What McCarthy does do effectively is to liberate the wandering mind and give in to innate human characteristics such as curiosity and whim. Thus, the plot breaks down into events that appear to go nowhere, but the overall analysis of the desires of the human mind is sound and, for the most part, intriguing and revealing. Recommended for the casual reader.
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