An apt place to begin

Kingfisher
Rozie Kelly

In light of my aims for this blog, I couldn’t have chosen a better book as the basis of my first entry. Needless to say, it’s a very good book. I appreciated its craft. But I didn’t enjoy it.

Kelly’s novel is written in a sparse style that I’ve never quite liked, as I first discovered when I read Hemingway (as a result, I always think of this style as Hemingway’s, although I’m aware that other people may identify it more immediately with some other writer). All the simple sentences leave me feeling slightly numbed, detached. Given that this novel’s protagonist is accused of being just that—cold and unfeeling—this effect is likely a very clever one. I appreciated that, but I longed for some connection. There is a tragedy at the heart of this story, and I felt perhaps I ought to be sad about it but remained only indifferent. I fear that there are people for whom this book will provoke tears, and that they will think me callous, but what can I do?

The other thing that stood in the way of me forming too deep an attachment to this novel was its narrator. He was, to my liking, too hyperbolically self-pitying (‘I’d hurt her again. I hurt everyone’). I’m aware I do him a disservice; he was a more complex character than that. But his self-pity stood out to me, and I disliked him for it. Again, this could be just the ticket – many a great novel has a dislikeable narrator. There are spectacular effects to be created. But on this occasion it just made me feel mildly irked. It did, however, make me reflect on self-pity. It is certainly a quality I dislike, both in myself and in others. I’ve rummaged around in my past, looking for the source. Was some influential adult in my childhood particularly scornful of the trait? Was I admonished for it at school? I don’t remember. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Before I read this book I wasn’t consciously aware that I disliked it. But now…