I read
The Book of Dave by Will Self, probably the most ambitious novel I've attempted since I read
Vellum in October. (Was it really October? It still feels recent, but so much has happened since then.) I didn't know what a big novel it would be when I began. It was assigned for a book club I joined, and then didn't get to attend because I was in Charlotte.
But I'd already bought the book. It was sitting on my table when I came home. I thought,
Why not? I like a big book. I like a book that tries to do more, and then draws you in. So I started reading. And then, unlike the extended reading project that was Vellum, finished it in three days, late last night. And, unlike the overstayed-its-welcome reading project that was Vellum, I got to the end and thought, "What? No! You can't do that. Where's the rest?"
[This is not a criticism of
Vellum. It's obviously a brilliant novel and there's lots to admire there, but I think I'm going to have to read it two or three more times before I figure it all out. Meanwhile,
Ink sits there on my shelf, taunting me.]
So I wished I had a book club with which to discuss
The Book of Dave. Because there's so much there. Damn my poor timing.
Here's what the back copy says:
"When East End cabdriver Dave Rudman's wife takes from him his only son, Dave pens a savage jeremiad against the contemporary world that filters his fearful bigotry through religious mania, with a generous dose of the London cabby's unique knowledge of the sprawling city. Dave buries the book in his ex-wife's Hampstead backyard, intending it for his son, Carl, when he comes of age. Five hundred years later, Dave's book is found by the inhabitants of Ham, a primitive archipelago in post-apocalyptic London, where it becomes a sacred text of biblical proportions and the template for a new civilization.
Equal parts dystopian fantasy, religious allegory, detective story, and tribute to the sometimes fraught relations between fathers and sons, The Book of Dave is a profound meditation upon the nature of religion and a caustic satire of contemporary life."
Inevitable that I'd be fascinated by this book. It weaves together the themes that intrigue me most...
The identity of a city.
The war between religion and reason.
The landscape of the post-apocalyptic.
Insanity.
Loss.
Language.
Our impotent desire to build the perfect kingdom on earth.
And it's underlined by a powerful rage against the pathetic brokenness of societies both present and future. No coincidence that I'm listening to Happy Hollow today and renewing my faith.
Parts of it reminded me of M. John Harrison, one of my favorite writers, mainly for the depictions of Thatcher-era London, a particular culture of insanity that anchors the surrealism of many of his stories. I liked that, too. And in my post-reading-binge web crawling I was immensely gratified to find that he'd written
a review of the book , although it was not in-depth as I would have liked. Not enough material to feed the obsession that I keep feeding, more than a year since it began.