A review by paul_viaf
G. by John Berger

4.0

Berger, an art critic, produces an in-depth psychological painting through which each strokes strongly defines the mind of his characters. Each wrinkle their very own. Each flaw. Each crevice carved by unmitigated moments of humanity. Each unique characteristic is articulated through their acute mannerisms & salted anatomy. The flavor of each character is pungently real. The main character is a miscreant. A man I much envy. What virtues constrain our coarse desires these days. I wonder about his depravity & the basis for its origins. So much is explained but this, his untainted nihilism. Hedonism spills from him in the most romantic dressings. I empathize with the cad. He is brave enough to be this licentious fool. A miscreant whose actions are justified by the sincerity with which he acts upon them. He reads as a man composed of a particularly honed lustful instinct which separates him from the bourgeoisie he casually fraternizes with & above the peasants he lures with his quasi-gentlemen-like facade. He is a spider. A master at ensnaring. Though this is through no special education or tedious work ethic. No, he was born to ensnare. He only becomes what his instincts allow & instincts have no need for mores. Highly detailed almost to its detriment. The author’s conviction to detailing minutiae causes the book to lag in certain instances. Perhaps this is more of a testament to generational differences in attention spans. The author speaks with a psychological verve which projects in certain instances & in others provides plausible insight. He seems to understand human relationships at certain points and boast about insights he might not have about the opposite sex in others. Truly Freudian in every sense of the word. The book has some archaic sexist views on women. These are never more apparent than in our paradigm-shifting present. Let it be said that if the book is nothing else, the reading is a fine thought exercise. It is not coherent for the most part and certain parts seem like a compilation of aphorisms. The narrative jumps between different realizations of the boy’s consciousness and the gathered experiences of his adulthood, though this is not a stream of consciousness book. Also the reader would be hard pressed to say that the main character ever learns any meaningful lesson from the wounds he incurs at all. The realizations he refers to merely shade in both mental stages with highlights heavy in metaphor and sensorial amusement. Nonlinear story lines aren't usually a problem for me; in fact I find them more entertaining, but because the novel proposes the reader engage in an exercise of such historical detail, the technique does not seem to meld well thematically. I'd like to give this a 3.5 but the site does not provide the option, so I will round up for the quality of metaphor & psychological complexity the author brings to this odd mix of erotic historical fiction.