The Book Against God
by
by
An Educated Failure
I have no idea what to make of this book. It is apparently pointless, written in deadeningly tedious prose about marriage, religion, and the neuroses of the English middle class. Woolf’s introspection without insight; and Murdoch’s thought reduced to triviality. Yet James Wood is a brilliant literary critic whose nuanced understanding of texts matches anyone’s. How can that person have written and published this book?
The protagonist, Tom, is a neurotic, hapless, puerile slob with poor personal hygiene. He also lies as impulsively as Donald Trump, particularly to his wife, until she gives him the boot. His response is to complain in the manner of Harry Enfield’s petulant teenager, Kevin, about her unfairness.
Characters pop in and quickly out of the narrative with no apparent purpose. The dialogue is stifling in the extreme:
“Are you all right, Tommy? You know we all care about you.’ The words fell like instantly evaporating rain. ‘Oh good, it’s nice to know that you all care about me,’ I said, with excessive bitterness. ‘You’re being unpleasant again.’ ‘And you are being less than sensitive.’ ‘This isn’t the place for this.’” It goes on for pages like this.
The story is held together by an undisclosed horrid and life-changing event on Christmas Eve. Turns out the effort of getting to the reveal is entirely wasted. The big event is about as trivial as a weather report in the New Testament. Tom’s spiritual journey, implied in the title, is equally trivial and the book leaves him exactly where he started.
There is much philosophical and theological name-dropping throughout, to no point whatsoever. Silly opinions flow constantly at pub meetings, dinner parties, and family get-togethers. “‘No,’ replied Max. ‘I’m not going to church. But I think as I get older that no one is really ever an atheist. Everyone believes.’” And “My intellectual hero is Martin Luther. I don’t think that needs further justification. My spiritual hero –well there are so awfully many, but I will nominate Father Brown, in the marvellous old Chesterton stories. And my moral hero: Winston Churchill.” Yes, and...?
So, a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Clearly fiction is not Wood’s metier. But this book is so bad I find it difficult to judge his other work with my former enthusiasm (See: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...)
I have no idea what to make of this book. It is apparently pointless, written in deadeningly tedious prose about marriage, religion, and the neuroses of the English middle class. Woolf’s introspection without insight; and Murdoch’s thought reduced to triviality. Yet James Wood is a brilliant literary critic whose nuanced understanding of texts matches anyone’s. How can that person have written and published this book?
The protagonist, Tom, is a neurotic, hapless, puerile slob with poor personal hygiene. He also lies as impulsively as Donald Trump, particularly to his wife, until she gives him the boot. His response is to complain in the manner of Harry Enfield’s petulant teenager, Kevin, about her unfairness.
Characters pop in and quickly out of the narrative with no apparent purpose. The dialogue is stifling in the extreme:
“Are you all right, Tommy? You know we all care about you.’ The words fell like instantly evaporating rain. ‘Oh good, it’s nice to know that you all care about me,’ I said, with excessive bitterness. ‘You’re being unpleasant again.’ ‘And you are being less than sensitive.’ ‘This isn’t the place for this.’” It goes on for pages like this.
The story is held together by an undisclosed horrid and life-changing event on Christmas Eve. Turns out the effort of getting to the reveal is entirely wasted. The big event is about as trivial as a weather report in the New Testament. Tom’s spiritual journey, implied in the title, is equally trivial and the book leaves him exactly where he started.
There is much philosophical and theological name-dropping throughout, to no point whatsoever. Silly opinions flow constantly at pub meetings, dinner parties, and family get-togethers. “‘No,’ replied Max. ‘I’m not going to church. But I think as I get older that no one is really ever an atheist. Everyone believes.’” And “My intellectual hero is Martin Luther. I don’t think that needs further justification. My spiritual hero –well there are so awfully many, but I will nominate Father Brown, in the marvellous old Chesterton stories. And my moral hero: Winston Churchill.” Yes, and...?
So, a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Clearly fiction is not Wood’s metier. But this book is so bad I find it difficult to judge his other work with my former enthusiasm (See: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...)
posted by The Mind of BlackOxford @ November 28, 2018
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