(On the cover of the
book there are no capital letters. I thought I’d honour McGregor’s choice.)
I refer you all to the first paragraph of my review of Life After Life, in which I ramble on about those books that are so fabulous
and thoroughly amazing that you want everybody ever in the world to read them.
And yes, this is another one of those books. if nobody speaks of remarkable things is truly on of the best books
I have ever read, and certainly the best book I have read in the last year. Or
perhaps two years. Since whenever it was I read Ishigruo’s Remains of the Day.
I have no words to explain
the sheer brilliance of this book, but I can and will rant about how much I
liked it. if nobody speaks of remarkable things is a novel about the ordinary
and the extraordinary. The books centres on one single street over one single
day, in which normality is shattered by an awful event. Simultaneously we get
the story of one of the street’s residents, looking back on that day from a few
years on. It is a portrait of the normal existence of one street, and of the
effects of tragedy, but it is also so much more. It is also a novel about
death, family, friendship, love, life. I’m amazed at how this book encompasses so
many snapshots of different bits of life in one single novel.
That McGregor manages
to create such strong and moving characters by naming so few is incredible. Somehow
the young man from number eighteen, the elderly couple from number twenty, the
man with the scared hands, the twin boys, the girl with the short blonde hair
and the little square glasses – all of these people come to life in details, in
their actions, their movements, without ever being given the solid identifier
of a name. And yet we recognise all the residents of the street as they appear
again and again, moving in and out of view for the reader. It’s an incredible
achievement.
The story I found the
most moving is that of the old husband and wife from number twenty. It is a
wonderfully poignant and moving portrait of a fairly unremarkable couple, who
in being normal, in simply loving one another, are of course remarkable. What
McGregor achieves here is to show the subtle beauty of everyday existence.
McGregor’s use of
language is also astounding. The novel is to an extent experimental in form,
but is never difficult to read. Every sentence is beautiful crafted without
ever being overpowering or cloying. He builds suspend and intrigue wonderfully,
and his writing is of such power and subtle elegance that I found myself almost
moved to tears by the most ordinary and simple of scenes and events. The
writing is just incredible. For example:
He
looks at the sheer blackness of the air, and he holds his breath.
He
wonders how so much water can resist the pull of so much gravity for the time
it takes such pregnant clouds to form, he wonders about the moment the rain
begins, the turn from forming to falling, that slight silent pause in the
physics of the sky as the critical mass is reached, the hesitation before the
first swollen drop hurtles fatly and effortlessly to the ground. He thinks
about this, and the rain begins to fall.
One,
two, three drops at a time, a slow streak down a bedroom window, a wet thud
onto a newspaper page, a hiss onto barbecue coals.
And
after these first kissed hints there is the full embrace, the wetness of the
sky pouring suddenly down upon this street, these houses, this city, falling
with a strange quietness at first, gently gathering momentum until suddenly
there is a noise like gravel slung at windows the rain is falling hard, heavy,
bouncing off the tarmac with such force that at ground level it’s hard to tell
if the rain is coming up or down, pounding the pavement and skidding across the
hot dry surfaces of the street, gushing down rooftops into gutters and cracked
drains, washing against windows and worn-out windowframes, hammering
insistently against anything left open to the sky.
Never in my life did
I realise anyone had the power with words to make ‘it starts to rain’ into this
incredible piece of writing.
The novel is split
between third person omniscient narrations of the street, and the narrative of
the unnamed girl with the short blonde hair and the little square glasses from
number twenty-two. This narrative too is beautifully strong. The
characterisation both of the girl and her parents, especially her mother, are
brilliant, and the insight into the consciousness of this one person is
wondrously deep and realistic. McGregor deftly explores perspective by giving
us both her account and the young man from number eighteen’s account of her.
Together we form a lasting impression and becomes a fully-fledged and human
character with whom you just can’t not sympathise with.
It is entitled if nobody speaks of remarkable things, but this novel deals often with the
unremarkable, or least with what seems unremarkable on the surface. It is a
book that attempts to show up the sheer remarkable nature of ordinary everyday
life, and does so superbly. It is everything that in my mind good novels should
be: gripping, thought-provoking, fascinating, beautifully written, and
thoroughly and wonderfully poignant.
As you can see, I
really can’t praise this book too highly.
Greatest
strength: I think
the sheer beauty and elegance of the writing, and the fact that this incredible
writing manages with such subtly to communicate the brilliance of ordinary and
extraordinary life.
Greatest
weakness: Nothing
whatsoever. An impeccably flawless and incredible book.
Let’s
finish on a quote:
He says there are remarkable things all the time, right in front of us, but our
eyes have like the clouds over the sun and our lives are paler and poorer if we
do not see them for what they are. He says, if nobody speak speaks remarkable
things, how can they be called remarkable?
Next week: I'm not actually sure yet. You may have to wait and see…
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