fictionfan's review
5.0
The end of the affair...
Olly Orme used to be a painter, but his muse has left him. He's still a thief though. He doesn't steal for money – it's the thrill that attracts him. He feels it's essential that his thefts are noticed or they don't count as theft. Usually it's small things he steals – a figurine, a tie-pin. But nine months ago, he stole his friend's wife, and now that theft is about to be discovered.
This is Olly's own story, told directly to the reader in the form of a narrative being written as events unfold. The tone starts off light and progressively darkens, but there is a delicious vein of humour throughout the book, observational sometimes, self-deprecatory at others. Olly is a narcissist, but his ability to admit his faults with a kind of saucy twinkle makes him an endearing character. For all his knowingness, he is child-like in his lack of understanding of other people, and over the course of the book he will learn that the people close to him know him considerably better than he knows them.
There isn't much plot in the book – an affair that becomes known, and its aftermath on the people involved. Normally I hate books that are light on plot, but the sheer enjoyment of reading Banville's luscious prose and wickedly perceptive characterisation kept me fully engaged. Olly's style is discursive and untidy, digressing mid-thought back to his past and then just as suddenly jumping off to discuss his style of painting or his thoughts on stealing. But underneath Olly's meanderings Banville is keeping tight control – all of Olly's detours and reminiscences serve Banville's central purpose, to gradually reveal to the reader all the complexities of the flawed and weak, but rather charming, character of Olly himself.
One doesn't have to wonder if Olly is an unreliable narrator, since he tells us frequently that he is. He openly uses false names of the Happy Families variety for the incidental people he meets – Mr Hanley the Haberdasher, etc - and embellishes remembered conversations to make them sound more interesting, but then owns up to it. This all adds to the feeling of him as being child-like, an innocent... but then we also know he's intelligent and untrustworthy, so what are we to believe? He spends much time trying to work out why he can no longer paint, but the reader feels the answer might not be as complex as he likes to think. Even the world he describes has a mild air of unreality to it – solar flares and meteor showers, a world rather crumbling round the edges. It's almost as if the time is not exactly now or else the world is not exactly this one – or perhaps it's a projection of Olly's narcissism, that when his life is disrupted, the whole world shakes in sympathy.
It's only when he talks of a past tragedy in his life that one feels the truth of this man is within grasp. But then he will quickly spin away again, complicating his life more and more, and though he pictures himself as suffering, it's hard not to feel he is enjoying this drama of his own creation, perhaps hiding in it. Even his frequent self-criticism is just another aspect of his overwhelming narcissism – so long as Olly can talk about himself, one feels he will weather any storm.
This is the first of Banville's books that I have read, and I loved it. Looking at reviews from people who are familiar with his earlier books, there's a suggestion that this one doesn't have as much substance as they do. That may very well be true – I would agree that, other than Olly's character, there's nothing particularly original or profound here. But it's the language! The fabulous prose! I could forgive a lot to someone who makes me enjoy every word, whether deeply meaningful or dazzlingly light. And Banville dazzled me while Olly entertained me – I'll happily settle for that.
NB This book was provided for review by the publisher, Penguin Books UK.
www.fictionfanblog.wordpress.com
Olly Orme used to be a painter, but his muse has left him. He's still a thief though. He doesn't steal for money – it's the thrill that attracts him. He feels it's essential that his thefts are noticed or they don't count as theft. Usually it's small things he steals – a figurine, a tie-pin. But nine months ago, he stole his friend's wife, and now that theft is about to be discovered.
This is Olly's own story, told directly to the reader in the form of a narrative being written as events unfold. The tone starts off light and progressively darkens, but there is a delicious vein of humour throughout the book, observational sometimes, self-deprecatory at others. Olly is a narcissist, but his ability to admit his faults with a kind of saucy twinkle makes him an endearing character. For all his knowingness, he is child-like in his lack of understanding of other people, and over the course of the book he will learn that the people close to him know him considerably better than he knows them.
What I really wanted to do was to kiss her lips, to lick her eyelids, to dart the tip of my tongue into the pink and secret volutes of her ear. I was in a state of heady amazement, at myself, at Polly, at what we were, at what we had all at once become. It was as if a god had reached down from that sky of stars and scooped us up in his hand and made a little constellation of us on the spot.
There isn't much plot in the book – an affair that becomes known, and its aftermath on the people involved. Normally I hate books that are light on plot, but the sheer enjoyment of reading Banville's luscious prose and wickedly perceptive characterisation kept me fully engaged. Olly's style is discursive and untidy, digressing mid-thought back to his past and then just as suddenly jumping off to discuss his style of painting or his thoughts on stealing. But underneath Olly's meanderings Banville is keeping tight control – all of Olly's detours and reminiscences serve Banville's central purpose, to gradually reveal to the reader all the complexities of the flawed and weak, but rather charming, character of Olly himself.
What I saw, with jarring clarity, was that there is no such thing as woman. Woman, I realised, is a thing of legend, a phantasm who flies through the world, settling here and there on this or that unsuspecting mortal female, whom she turns, briefly but momentously, into an object of yearning, veneration and terror.
One doesn't have to wonder if Olly is an unreliable narrator, since he tells us frequently that he is. He openly uses false names of the Happy Families variety for the incidental people he meets – Mr Hanley the Haberdasher, etc - and embellishes remembered conversations to make them sound more interesting, but then owns up to it. This all adds to the feeling of him as being child-like, an innocent... but then we also know he's intelligent and untrustworthy, so what are we to believe? He spends much time trying to work out why he can no longer paint, but the reader feels the answer might not be as complex as he likes to think. Even the world he describes has a mild air of unreality to it – solar flares and meteor showers, a world rather crumbling round the edges. It's almost as if the time is not exactly now or else the world is not exactly this one – or perhaps it's a projection of Olly's narcissism, that when his life is disrupted, the whole world shakes in sympathy.
How well I remember her face, which is a foolish claim to make, since any face, especially a child's, is in a gradual but relentless process of change and development, so that what I carry in my memory can be only a version of her, a generalisation of her, that I have fashioned for myself, as an evanescent keepsake.
It's only when he talks of a past tragedy in his life that one feels the truth of this man is within grasp. But then he will quickly spin away again, complicating his life more and more, and though he pictures himself as suffering, it's hard not to feel he is enjoying this drama of his own creation, perhaps hiding in it. Even his frequent self-criticism is just another aspect of his overwhelming narcissism – so long as Olly can talk about himself, one feels he will weather any storm.
This is the first of Banville's books that I have read, and I loved it. Looking at reviews from people who are familiar with his earlier books, there's a suggestion that this one doesn't have as much substance as they do. That may very well be true – I would agree that, other than Olly's character, there's nothing particularly original or profound here. But it's the language! The fabulous prose! I could forgive a lot to someone who makes me enjoy every word, whether deeply meaningful or dazzlingly light. And Banville dazzled me while Olly entertained me – I'll happily settle for that.
NB This book was provided for review by the publisher, Penguin Books UK.
www.fictionfanblog.wordpress.com
smbla's review against another edition
2.0
I have a conflicted relationship with John Banville I am never sure that I enjoy his work and yet I read his books as soon as they are published. The Blue Guitar leaves me in the same quandary-there are parts I absolutely loved and moments that stick with me and yet I have a flat feeling about this novel. Oliver Orme is a painter and a thief (really more of a kleptomaniac) married to Gloria, he is definitely in the midst of a midlife crisis and has an affair with Polly who is married to Marcus.
It is one of those stories that nothing really every seems to work out for the characters -the affair ends with Oliver bolting, we learn some truths about Gloria and her feelings and external relationships, Polly changes course and Marcus meets his end. I did enjoy Oliver's response when he realized something had been stolen from him-the shock and realization that he was not the only thief. All in all the characters were just not likable perhaps contributing to my Banville ennui and lackluster response to this book.
It is one of those stories that nothing really every seems to work out for the characters -the affair ends with Oliver bolting, we learn some truths about Gloria and her feelings and external relationships, Polly changes course and Marcus meets his end. I did enjoy Oliver's response when he realized something had been stolen from him-the shock and realization that he was not the only thief. All in all the characters were just not likable perhaps contributing to my Banville ennui and lackluster response to this book.
mercedesol_'s review against another edition
4.0
This was my first Banville book and, while I found the story somehow mediocre, I fell in love with this man's writing. He'll dazzle you while talking about the mundane. He'll make you go to the dictionary at least once per page. He'll have you highlighting quotes all over. I'm in love.
jumbleread's review against another edition
3.0
Mystery book. But I just couldn’t relate to the main character - darn.
queleoar's review against another edition
1.0
Este libro, lamentablemente, el primero del 2017, no me ha gustado nada. Desde que comenzo me pareció denso y díficil de leer por el estilo entre poético y sumamente descriptivo en que esta narrado. Me resultó imposible conectar con los personajes, entender sus historias, sus formas de pensar, particularmente me sucedió con Olly, su protagonista, cuyas complejidades no logré entender. Considero que la historia esta contada de manera tal que resulta mucho mas intrincada de lo que resulta ser, sobrándole muchos capítulos y episodios cuya inserción en la novela aun no comprendo. Una pena porque fue un libro que me cautivó en la libreria, al que quise dar una oportunidad y que ha terminado decepcionandome bastante :(
athravan's review against another edition
4.0
The Blue Guitar is a look into the life of Oliver Orme, who by his own testament is a "painster", an angst filled frustrated artist. He comes across as a wind-bag, a whiner, a coward and a thief, yet despite his many negative qualities, does evoke sympathy. He lost his three year old daughter to illness and it's clear that he has been crashing downwards since then, a demonstration of the profound nature of grief, disappointment and desperation.
The first half of the book was a struggle for me to read. I don't read lofty literary fiction often; although mostly enjoy it when I do, but I found that the narrative was a little too static, a little too meandering and dare I suggest, even redundant, for me to connect to. There were times early on when I felt that the brilliant prose was there purely to show off the authors linguistic skill - which is tremendous.
As we moved on I became more involved with the book, more understanding of Oliver's character and his motivations. He is obsessed with the an objects "essence", something emotional, intangible and unobtainable. He no longer paints because of his frustrations over being unable to adequately portray that essence, so instead, has taken to stealing. The act of stealing, he believes, reactivates the object's essence and is more about the emotional loss that the previous owner feels, than any physical value the object has. His biggest theft to date is perhaps the most meaningful one - his friend's wife.
The writing is entirely reflective, leaping from storytelling to aimless meandering, from the upbeat to the melancholy. The subject and theme jumps around but the spirit of Oliver Orme is captured completely. Thinking about Oliver Orme made me consider and reflect upon my own life, my own disappointments and frustrations. I struggled to write this review, because ultimately I do not have the skill to put into words the musings that I took from this read, so all I can do is recommend it.
There is no doubt in my mind that John Banville is a master at his craft, obtaining what Oliver desperately sought, the ability to bring art to life.
I appreciate the opportunity given to me with an ARC of this book - my thanks go to Penguin and NetGalley.
The first half of the book was a struggle for me to read. I don't read lofty literary fiction often; although mostly enjoy it when I do, but I found that the narrative was a little too static, a little too meandering and dare I suggest, even redundant, for me to connect to. There were times early on when I felt that the brilliant prose was there purely to show off the authors linguistic skill - which is tremendous.
As we moved on I became more involved with the book, more understanding of Oliver's character and his motivations. He is obsessed with the an objects "essence", something emotional, intangible and unobtainable. He no longer paints because of his frustrations over being unable to adequately portray that essence, so instead, has taken to stealing. The act of stealing, he believes, reactivates the object's essence and is more about the emotional loss that the previous owner feels, than any physical value the object has. His biggest theft to date is perhaps the most meaningful one - his friend's wife.
The writing is entirely reflective, leaping from storytelling to aimless meandering, from the upbeat to the melancholy. The subject and theme jumps around but the spirit of Oliver Orme is captured completely. Thinking about Oliver Orme made me consider and reflect upon my own life, my own disappointments and frustrations. I struggled to write this review, because ultimately I do not have the skill to put into words the musings that I took from this read, so all I can do is recommend it.
There is no doubt in my mind that John Banville is a master at his craft, obtaining what Oliver desperately sought, the ability to bring art to life.
I appreciate the opportunity given to me with an ARC of this book - my thanks go to Penguin and NetGalley.
danixcalero's review against another edition
2.0
nunca pensei ler sobre um homem gordo, ruivo, egoista, depressivo e q tem fetiches com pés mas aqui estamos nos..
discocrow's review against another edition
2.0
“I’m tired of the past, of the wish to be there and not here,” John Banville writes, and yet the book oozes its history. These are the dusty figures of midnight wanderings. The artist as a thief, and a far less subtle one than Siken's The War of the Foxes imagines. John Banville's novel is one of self-reflection and regret, the slow slip into complacency that we all eventually fall into and the wondering over whether there is another way. Is all art thievery? Is it possible to get something we desire without it losing its lustre? For that matter, what do we truly want? One person I spoke with heard me say John Banville's name and replied in a huff "Oh, that pretentious boor." Yes, to some he would be just that.
This is the story of Olly Orme, a painter and petty thief who has lost his inspiration to paint but gained his best friend's wife. The narrative begins with him having sequestered himself in his childhood home to avoid both his mistress and his own wife and reminisce over his own history. Slowly, the writing moves away from this focused plot to instead focus upon the intricacies of art and language itself. Why should we be shackled down by our own expectations? Why can't we show things as they truly are, but instead as we want them to be? Or in showing things as we want them to be are we truly showing them as they are? These heady thoughts tangle with the plot until the ultimate focus of the reader is on the words, the melody, the rhythm of the story itself.
The book was difficult to get through for me, but it was beautiful. I didn't enjoy it quite as much as The Sea, for to me The Sea is a true masterpiece and I enjoyed its more subtle approach. All the same, Banville is a glorious writer and one that I would recommend without hesitation to anyone looking for something a bit more difficult. I would caution, however, to focus more on the poeticism of his writing than much else.
This is the story of Olly Orme, a painter and petty thief who has lost his inspiration to paint but gained his best friend's wife. The narrative begins with him having sequestered himself in his childhood home to avoid both his mistress and his own wife and reminisce over his own history. Slowly, the writing moves away from this focused plot to instead focus upon the intricacies of art and language itself. Why should we be shackled down by our own expectations? Why can't we show things as they truly are, but instead as we want them to be? Or in showing things as we want them to be are we truly showing them as they are? These heady thoughts tangle with the plot until the ultimate focus of the reader is on the words, the melody, the rhythm of the story itself.
The book was difficult to get through for me, but it was beautiful. I didn't enjoy it quite as much as The Sea, for to me The Sea is a true masterpiece and I enjoyed its more subtle approach. All the same, Banville is a glorious writer and one that I would recommend without hesitation to anyone looking for something a bit more difficult. I would caution, however, to focus more on the poeticism of his writing than much else.