Metropolitan Life by Fran Lebowitz (1974)

 On the assumption that these essays a.k.a. magazine pieces are presented chronologically, Lebowitz got a lot better over time. (But, at the risk of sounding like a broken record, it was the cover that heightened expectations. This book forms the first half of a reader published recently by Virago, with utterly glowing praise presented five times on its outer. Two of these from David Sedaris and Martin Scorsese, the others from names not known to me.) Initially I slumped in my chair, as the recognition dawned that she had an occasionally snappy turn of phrase, but things otherwise kept landing dully. I like particularly an aspiration she has of setting up an amusing commentary on life and society, and then taking the notion further by itemising. There'll be three things that matter about a particular issue, or questions that need answering by a critic of some new fad, or contrasts to make about the sides of an argument. She'll give a witty outline, and then the rest is divided into sections answering each angle in turn, providing further opportunity for wit. Or at least that's the plan. The model is a potentially great one, and almost all the examples here give some hints of it. But they're then undercut by attempts at furtherance which are just a bit too thin, or even a bit too broad, to be contrary. Her hammer at the fair doesn't whack down hard enough on the plate, and the doobrie resultantly doesn't ring the bell. As time went by, though, I wriggled up in my chair a bit and started taking notice. I laughed properly for the first time on page 32: Breeding Will Tell uses her trademark distanced commentator's connoisseur-like style ("I neglected, however, to take into consideration that I number among my acquaintances some people of decidedly lofty background.") to game up a society resume from very indigent materials. Thereafter, things looked up, and also drooped occasionally - the mixture improved from 30/70 to 60/40. 60/40's not a bad place to be, and there are moments in the last third which sing. A Brush with Death is a lot of fun, using hostage-taking as a pretext for art criticism ("A frightening number of conceptual artists (two) occupied space in downtown Manhattan and, when no one noticed, were obliged to go uptown.") The far higher quality of the latter material here is a good portent for her following book Social Studies, which forms the second half of this reader.

South and West by Joan Didion (2017)

 This is a very short book, covering some notes Didion took towards magazine pieces that never happened, and some additional memories from much later on. It's divided into two sections, one on the South and one, much shorter, on California. She goes back to the South with her husband in 1970, for the first time since visiting her father where he was stationed in North Carolina in 1942, when she was a child. I can imagine that this part has what might be politely termed a mixed reputation in the South itself. It is not entirely, in fact quite rarely, complimentary. Some of the criticisms are associated with conservatism and prejudice and seem entirely fair, but others feel prejudiced themselves and to be narrow views of the social spread of the region. But there's no doubt that it's an evocative view, with rich colour built into its picture of those small towns and cities. The comparison it brings to my mind are those Youtube videos of almost abandoned American small towns, where most of the main street is empty and tumbledown. My thought is that Didion was seeing some of these while they were still fully functioning, in fact probably just as their death warrants were being signed by oncoming neoliberal decay. It's also good to experience her work without overshadowing melancholy - the books on the death of her husband and daughter and her own ageing had a current of tension and lowering. The part on California is tiny, only a few pages, and basically simply says "I feel comfortable here". Too little to it. I'm not sure what was happening with the publication of this book; it seems too minimal to amount to one. The part on the South could have been expanded upon, perhaps, if she'd felt travel-able at that period? A bit thin, but the main part has flavour.

Troll: A Love Story by Johanna Sinisalo (2000)

 This is one of those books which has a personal nostalgia-stamp on it. The group of London bookselling "hipsters" with which I was aligned at the turn of the century would have had reading it as a badge of recognition, if it had been available in translation then. It soon was, in 2003, in its first edition. Subsequently, this has been revised a couple of times. The original translation's title also followed the original much more closely: Not Before Sundown. Hipness is the thing which denotes it. It's the story of a young gay Finnish 'creative', living in Tampere, coming home from clubbing and sexual frustration, seeing in his apartment building's grotty, winter-windswept yard a group of youths bothering cruelly something in their midst. His intrusion and that of the 'concierge' of the building scatters them eventually. When the concierge retreats, satisfied, the creative homes in on what it was they were torturing. It's a troll: in these pages, that's a cat-bear-like creature, with humanish characteristics. This one is weak and skinny and whimpery, but silky-black-haired and fascinating. He's astonished, because in this world trolls are real, yes, but they are rarely seen, another dwindling species of the forest, forced into contact very occasionally with humans as a result of habitat-reduction. Myths abound about them, including all sorts of urban fantasms like "human" behaviour and influence over some people to the point of their being lost, having joined the troll-world. Enthralled, Angel (actually Mikael) takes the troll to his flat and tries to look after him. Angel is very good-looking, and twisted up in connections in his set, which includes ad executives, other creatives, and, handily, a vet. Some of them fancy him unrequitedly, sometimes it's the other way round. Angel names the troll Pessi, after a troll character in a book he read when he was young. He keeps Pessi's existence a secret, going through a worrying and hazardous process of trying to get him to eat and be well, as he seems almost to have given up on his life, having had too hard a time. Finally, with some convenient lies, he enlists at one remove the help of the vet, and, crucially, another character, a Filipino woman living downstairs with her abusive Finnish partner. Palomita is pretty well a prisoner, and only goes out to buy groceries or perform errands. Pentti keeps strong tabs on her, uses her sexually very harshly, and explodes if anything she says or does contradicts his ideas. She keeps tabs on the stairs of the building through the spyhole in her front door, and so sees Angel going back and forth. She provides some cat food for Angel's recalcitrant "pet", which she has never seen, early on, and thus begins a connection which is much more important in her eyes than his. Not knowing his predilections, she falls for him, and sees him as a potential rescuer. The novel veers into dangerous territory from here, as Pessi recovers and begins to flourish. Firstly, Angel seems to be erotically fascinated by him. I'm glad Sinisalo only took that so far; I was dreading some sort of "groover-analysis" of bestiality. But also, Angel takes some photographs of Pessi (photographic design in his stock in trade) which turn out magnificently, treated a bit with heavy contrast and dramatising effects. He has been asked by a seemingly straight chap he fancies enormously to come up with something for a jeans company's campaign. This is in keeping with the tone of the rest of the book, where characters are realistically mixed in their motivations, both selfish and caring by turns. The photographs were a playful punt - he puts the sample jeans onto Pessi and tries the shots, not necessarily expecting too much. He is so impressed by them that he decides to claim that they're complete fabrications based on his brother's photos of wild trolls. Martes, the ad executive, is blown away too. The campaign is a huge success and earns both a load of cash. A little bit later, Martes has another of these moments of unscrupulousness and uses one of the other shots for a sporting club's logo. Angel hasn't been asked or informed. He explodes in anger. Through this period, he has been casually getting together with Ecke, who is besotted with him. Returning to his own flat from Ecke's, angry after the revelation of Martes' perfidy, Angel forgets his keys. Ecke realises, and decides that now is the time to finally see Angel's flat, which has been denied him; he doesn't know why. Strangely, Angel isn't home yet. He goes in, thinking he'll surprise him. Angel has been waylaid downstairs with Palomita, who is trying everything she can to get this handsome young chap to see her. Unfortunately, Pentti comes home unexpectedly, and there's not only anger, but a wallop of course. Angel is thrown outside, but goodness knows what Palomita will now go through within. Angel stumbles upstairs with the master key he's got from the concierge. He finds inside a scene of horror. Pessi has seen Ecke as an invader of he and Angel's exclusive territory. Blood everywhere, Ecke dead on the floor, throat ripped open. Then there's a short denouement with police being called, the vet being pressganged into forensic-style work. Angel has disappeared, presumed a killer, though there were stories of a creature in the flat as well. We spend the last chapter with Angel, carrying a wrapped Pessi in his arms, taking a taxi and then proceeding on foot into some wilder woods which border a forest reserve. Here, in dubious light, a large male troll meets them, brandishing a gun (!). Pessi is bouncing all round him, excited and enthusiastic - is he Pessi's father / 'tribal' leader? He and Angel are led deep into the wilds, silently, like black shadows entering a netherworld. Finally, under the low branches of a spruce, two more shadow-forms emerge from a tiny space between two rocks, the only light the last sunrays, interrupted and speckled. The large troll gestures with the gun, unmistakably, and Angel joins them all, slipping between the rocks into - ? This summary is the best of this piece. I didn't care a great deal about the characters, with the notable exception of Palomita - sad not to know what became of her, and to think of her once again shattered expectations, let alone what Pentti may have done to her. There's an unresolved element of this whole piece for me, regarding exploitation. There are 'quotes' from historical works mentioning trolls interspersed throughout, some invented and some real, I'm guessing, which generally don't do a lot, and could have been dispensed with, apart from perhaps a couple of epigraphs to the parts. So, a mixed story, of potential and slight misfires. As it's her first novel, I wonder whether she's refined these aspects in later works.

Blue Nights by Joan Didion (2011)

 This is very much Part II of the story that began in her previous book The Year of Magical Thinking. It covers not only the death of her daughter Quintana, but the first inklings the author has of declining capabilities as part of her ageing. Much of the same territory is compassed in a similar way, which means we have punchiness here also, concern with family modes here also, self-criticism to a strong extent here also. I pondered after having read the previous book whether she would feel able, once the focus shifted entirely onto Quintana, to address that daughter's nature and experiences more directly, particularly the alcoholism which seems to have been key to understanding her. In a sense she does, and then again doesn't. She tiptoes carefully to her sometimes drinking too much, and explores timidly the pressures that may have brought that about, but that's as far as it goes. There are also hints online at potential sexual abuse of Quintana, which as far as I can determine are unsubstantiated - she does not address these, and perhaps didn't need to? I'm not an expert. I will say I don't feel any more enlightened about Quintana after this episode of the story; she's still an enigmatic figure whose personality is not overly clear to me. Subsequently, Didion is good at picturing the unsteadying quality of the first realisations of her own frailty. When energy starts to get compromised, and interest in/hunger for the world and its machinations (her stock in trade as a journalist) starts to flag, she feels disarranged, her anchor dragging, certainties failing. On the whole, this doesn't quite have the bright thwack of the previous volume, and its sense of structure. And I will admit to one particular writing trope starting to pall a little: she uses repetition for effect often. A phrase will be considered telling, either something somebody said which seems significant, or a summary line which 'encapsulates perfectly', which will be used again later (in a separate paragraph, or in italics, or both) to harden emphasis. This trope is great when used judiciously - I got the emerging feeling here that there were occasions which could have done without the repetition, particularly when there are a string of them, old ones compounding more recent examples; the sense of significance lessening just when it ought to intensify. 

Teatro Grottesco by Thomas Ligotti (2006)

 This is the third collection by Ligotti I've sampled, and perhaps there's less to say here. This is a lot later on in his career, with the intervening titles often being currently available only in crazedly expensive limited editions, or insanely rare old paperbacks, making them also crazedly expensive. So who knows how the story unfolded, specifically? Here he has reached a place of virtuosity in terms of deft play between psychology and concept. Many of these are very satisfyingly clever. They occupy themselves with a lot less of what would be called horror tropes, and a lot more with states of mind, particularly among groups. But these are odd, slightly "off" groups, who are loners and eccentrics, with artistic leanings. They are taken to classic Ligotti territory, like almost abandoned towns, old gas stations, backstreet shopfronts which double as rarely-entered galleries, and so on, but there's a push here for the weird to be exemplified in peculiarities of mind and philosophy, and conceptual twists, rather than anything too monstrous. Look forward to the "missing" (bar a huge account balance) entries in the bibliography to be reinstated, so as to trace back. Only a novella and a philosophical non-fiction to go, I think.

The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion (2005)

 As with so many writers, I've not read Didion before. No idea whether this is a good place to start as a whole, but it's certainly a good book. It's the story of her husband's death, and her daughter's life-threatening illness, which both happened in late 2003. What marks it out is a toughly enquiring tone, coupled with an honest self-appraisal. Her daughter Quintana was going through a coma-like hospitalisation at the time of her husband John Gregory Dunne's death. They were starting on dinner in the midst of the long vigil going back and forth to her bedside in a New York hospital when Dunne collapsed and died from a massive heart attack. Didion admits that she was not in the mental space where this could happen; in other words was subject to shock, despite the fact that he had been told often enough by doctors of the occlusion he had being nicknamed "the widowmaker". She looks back afterwards and sees what may have been signs, but at the time of the death is utterly sideswiped. This, with the ongoing situation with Quintana, brings on an array of reactions and interpretations as the weeks go by, all swirled by shock, but also all marked with her distinctive "cool customer" attempts at toughness, and her honest subsequent reflections on vulnerabilities and delusive paths of thought. Her analytical mind, which seems a, if not the, prominent element of her personality, is relentless, even when it's encountering her own unwillingness or inability to reach a bulwark of understanding. She has a journalist's almost kneejerk reaction about going to the literature, and includes excerpts of things she was reading which shed sometimes temporary, sometimes profound, light on her understanding of the experience, from articles in medical journals, to what might be called superior self-help books. She also revisits their family life and social life, where particular details seem to provide explanations of the undercurrents of where she's got to now. The prose is punchy and direct, whilst retaining emotional strength, which makes it engrossing. Its honesty also tells the story she probably wasn't thinking of, where we get to see her privilege and assumptions. One thing it doesn't tell is the deeper story of Quintana: a bit of very quick internet research reveals her alcoholism, which is not mentioned here at all. The next book I have by Didion is called Blue Nights, and is about Quintana's death in 2005, so I wonder whether she will feel able to engage with that fact at that point. We'll see.

My Favourite London Devils by Iain Sinclair (2016)

 Iain Sinclair has hitherto just been a name to me, and the associations suggested had a particular flavour; he seemed always beloved of what I would call 'fanboy' types. In-crowd 'boys'. Now I'm initiated, and the evidence is mixed. It was hard to go from Gene Wolfe to this one. Whereas Wolfe's calling card was labyrinthine plot and conceits, Sinclair's ramifications are in the prose, and the referencing. Where Wolfe was concave, allowing us as readers to push into his space, have some agency, Sinclair is highly convex, and we have to sit and 'listen'. These are all pieces, I think, written as introductions to new editions, or occasional journalistic pieces, about authors who treat of London in a big way. So he's excused, in a sense, for being on the plane of provision. They vary in treatment a little, from where the fascinating details of lesser-known authors' lives and publishing histories are allowed to breathe, to desperately hyperbolic coverage of the legends of 'legends' like Ballard. Sinclair in this mode (I am assuming there may be different ones for fiction and other pieces) is endlessly referential and declarative, heroising these figures almost to the point of having them leering over us, backed by a significant sunset, their rock-of-ages-like visages slaking off the sweat of greatness. It's all frankly a bit much. It's overwrought and exhausting, but the element which goes furthest to performing a saving trick is the information locked away in this convexity. I'm guessing the fanboys revere the style as poetry, loving the namechecking and dramatic, essentialist language. I feel tired.