Not knowing anything about this book before I bought it, I'm afraid my shallow tendencies got the better of me and I allowed myself to be completely befuddled by the marketing.
By which I mean the mention of some award or other on the cover and, indeed, the cover itself. When it comes to books, I am an absolute sucker for embossing, gilding and general frue-frue. While a battered old paperback edition of a well-thumbed favourite has a certain charm, if I can fill my shelves with pretty, tricksy, olde worlde keepsakes, then fill them I will.
So it was the rubber that got me. Before your mind starts delving into the filthiest sewers you can conjure, let me clarify what I just said. The edition I picked up boasted a strange plasticine quality to its cover; it was literally grabby. So I bought it and attempted to read it.
It is always a warning sign when you have to 'attempt' to read anything. If you find yourself willingly distracted by other books after the first couple of chapters; if you glance at your bedside table three months later and find yourself thinking, 'oh yeah, I'd better finish that I suppose', then the book has failed to do its job.
The Quickening Maze does have some good qualities. It's short, for a start. Okay, so that's a bit unfair. It's well written, well researched and boasts plenty of descriptive flair. But Jesus Christ, it's boring. It's so boring that it has even had a knock-on effect for an internationally renowned poet (more on that later).
The central focus of the story is on the 19th century poet John Clare, who as a young man found occasion to be incarcerated in a private mental institution run by a twice-bankrupt chancer who is still pursuing his fortune. When Alfred Tennyson's brother checks in with a severe case of 'madder than a box of frogs'-ism, the unscrupulous proprietor thinks he has secured his meal ticket.
This is the most interesting part of the whole story, sadly it is also the least featured. For the rest of this mercifully brief novel, we have to endure the asylum owner's unattractive daughter's attempts to get laid and the increasingly tedious woodland ramblings of schizoid Clare. I got so bored that, when I spotted a volume of poems by the unfortunate Clare in a bookshop today, I thought, 'no thanks pal, your lyrical tidbits can go untasted in this household'.
Which is completely unfair on poor old Clare, so I suggest his ghost comes back and haunts Foulds to within an inch of his life. Don't get me wrong, the guy is a talented writer who clearly knows how to string a sentence together. But a gripping story seems to have eluded him on this occasion. Maybe he should have thrown in a car chase. Or two.
No comments:
Post a Comment