Holden Caufield – whatevs. Charles Highway – a legend
Well played, Devans. That is the literary criticism quote of the decade.
Obviously I had no choice but to love this book, as Martin was kind enough to name it after me. But that aside, it is just too funny not to love. And so on point. With all the grossness of the teenage years, reminding you of just how awful and stupid and self-centered teenagers are. But still, you have to love them. Or maybe Martin just got to us at exactly the right time, a wizened 24 being the perfect age to still clearly remember being 19 but with enough distance that you can laugh at the hijinks.
Things I loved most:
1. Charles’ hyperverbal discussion of… everything. He can’t talk about female anatomy without referring to Tropic of Cancer, can’t go to the museum without writing a speech about Blake (to be delivered as the sun sets glimmerinly over the Thames out the window), is citing Larkin and lots of other presumably famous British male authors.
2. The hacking cough. Never has a bodily function been described in such disgusting detail while also making the hero somehow endearing. Mucous as motif. I like it.
3. [SPOILER ALERT] Rachel wetting the bed and refusing to give Charles a blowjob. I’m sorry, that is pure comedy. And the sour, straightforward way it is described… I nearly cried from laughing.
Dave, you’re totally right. Martin is obviously a big misogynist. But not having read anything else he has written, I was willink to chalk that up to him having created a misogynistic character. And I love that Charles is so confused by/ disgusted by women. The only part where I thought the lady-hating got in the way of the story was in the Jenny/Norman plotline, where Norman beats Jenny up and Charles not only doesn’t have a normal brotherly reaction but becomes card-playing buddiers with Norman. Maybe this is my two X chromosomes talking, but that was a detail that I didn’t find believable. Now, I am more than willing to put this aside in the face of gems like, (I don’t have my book with me so I’m paraphrasing) “As I took Rachel into my room it smelled to me of every sock I had every taken off, every clump of ear wax I had smeared until the desk, every booger I had flicked onto the wall.”
As for Inheritance of Loss. Oh heavens. It’s a good’un. Started it Sunday and am nearly through. Is it terribly politically incorrect of me to note that Indians seem to consistently write excellent fiction about globalization and colonialism? Roy, Rushdie, Naipaul… Ok that’s only three. But so far this Desai lady is earning her keep on the list.
