It's a fake Rolex watch on a street-hawker's tabletop where they spell Rolex wrong. Phases of the moon ? You bet, right here on the Rollecks, young si...moreIt's a fake Rolex watch on a street-hawker's tabletop where they spell Rolex wrong. Phases of the moon ? You bet, right here on the Rollecks, young sir.
It's Bond's illegitimate mini-me, or a teen-aged Johnny Quest, it's commercial-trend-mining at its most blatant, and, I suspect, pretty cliffhangerishly awful.
But come on -- Whirling dervishes, a comely, simpatico Turkish girl, devious agents, exotica, mystery and the Balkans in dangerous, imagined-coldwar guise. I read this when I was 11. And then reread it, four more times. This may be my Rosebud.*
(I'm actively tracking down a copy; for some reason the finer vintage booksellers aren't much on color-pvc-jacketed tween kitsch from the sixties. Wonder why that is.)
*Then again, more appropriately, this may actually be my Monkees. I had already begun reading my father's Ian Fleming collection years before this came out, and for some reason this 'teen agent' business just hit home for an eleven-year-old in ways that Bond's cold appraising stare couldn't comprehend. Fully fake though it may be.
So a lot like the (very same) recordlover who put his Hard Day's Night to the side when the Last Train To Clarksville steamed through--- this was my beautiful, counterfeit, tweenage daydream. And a phony, guilty pleasure if ever there was one. I remember large type, broad margins, and not a heavy page-count; and unlike those racy-cover Flemings, I didn't need to read it in the garage. (less)
"...we'll probably go on talking to Lyalin until the end of his life. There are always loose ends, things in the past, old stories with a new angle, procedural stuff, structures, order of battle and so on. There was one particular minor mystery, a cryptonym no one could crack because the information was too vague..."
There's no good way to discuss this without reference to at least part of the outcome; even more tricky is that what's going on doesn't really work very smoothly. We have a first-person narrative via a female narrator who is later revealed to be her opposite number, a secret and concealed male meta-narrator. I suppose the ill-at-ease nature of the main story might be called 'intentional' in that light-- neither the meta-Narrator nor the actual Author are females, so telling a woman's tale, in her voice, might have distancing elements. Well, yeah.
More than once now I've found McEwan kind of a disappointment, giving us a book that could have been something beautifully designed and engrossing but resulting in just being engrossing, as the design unravels and trips itself up on it's own clever intentions.
It's An Ouroboros. The thing from mythology, a serpent that eats its own tail. As we get to the final chapter's revelations, we realize that the whole thing's been a fraudulent, perhaps shambolic story made up in reverse by the people represented therein.
Shorter version of our subject here, a shaggy-dog story wherein the dog is pretty much out-storied by the details of the shagging, but with a real jolt in the end. Er, make that a jolt in the finale.
1. Get The Guests. Let's start with the small quibbles. For some reason McEwan thinks it may be entertaining to have some real-name literary personae-- actual contemporaries of his-- populating the publishing scene of the day. Maybe it's fun for the participants to decipher the clues with each other, but I have to think for the broad swath of general readership... it is not. It does provide a kind of push-pull that provides some separation, or distance, from the central thread of the story.
While we're on names, they're pretty overdone, intentionally, of course. Our heroine is given the fateful notification of her secret career by Harry Tapp. Peter Nutting seems to be in charge. Shirley Shilling is a working stiff who turns against her and Max Greatorex at first runs her casework portfolio, while becoming a vengeful Ex along the way. There are more of those; who does this anymore ?
McEwan writes beautifully when his design permits. This passage grounds us perfectly in the era, without any reference to contemporary events:
...it was supposed to be a convertible but the concertina metal bits that supported the canvas top were too rusted to fold back. This old MGA had a map light on a chrome stem, and quivering dials. It smelled of engine oil and friction heat, the way a 1940s Spitfire might. You felt the warm tin floor vibrate beneath your feet... I shoved my bag into the tiny space behind me, and felt the seat's cracked leather snag faintly against the silk of my blouse...
And yet, with this kind of deft atmospheric spin at his service, nearly all period references are dropped, about halfway through the novel, as we move on to the drama aspects in depth. A waste of a compelling palette there, it seems to me, and consistency suffers if ignoring the period in favor of the theatrics.
2. Hump The Hostess. It must be said that nearly every age-appropriate male who enters the scene has his way with our dithering narrator-heroine. Each and every instance is wildly different, so this may be chalked up to exposition. Okay, maybe. Lucky for all of us she's a speed-reading lit-aficionado who happens to have graduated in math at Cambridge.
Once we move into dramaville, some of this topsy-turvy characterization is left to drift away; there are abrupt shifts with unexpected inclusions that take us away from the central protagonist. We have several 'short stories' described to us in nearly full detail, we have a finale that is voiced not by our heroine but by the male meta-Narrator, and within that we have an excursion that discusses some exploits of Brit Counterintelligence during the war. In case we were in the mood for that, just when he was finally about to explain the game. When we get back to our multi-threaded heroine, in the end of the book, she's barely a shadow, and perhaps not even that.
Okay, fine, we get the idea; the Secret Service as an exchangeably similar pursuit to Interpersonal Relations, the false motives, traps, revelations, alibis, poses, disguises. But since this has been covered pretty successfully from Conrad to Greene to Maugham to Le Carré and beyond, this might best be balanced, subliminal, maybe something of an undertow. McEwan lights up the flashing metaphor sign to be sure everyone is aware.
3. Humiliate The Host. Once we get within the fences of that Finale, we are at leisure to contemplate that meta-Narrator, and his adjacent if complex interchangeability with the real author. Not sure this is as brilliant as when Joyce did it, when Nabokov did it or-- whether Literature as we know it is a one-trick pony, and thus ever the game. The hero-c'est-moi reveal is maybe a little threadbare by now.
For a long list of reasons, Sweet Tooth is sadly not the book it could be. Somehow elevating the story's concerns to a game of counterespionage and name-the-famous-author undercuts its value. Uppermost on that list is that it goes beyond the call of duty to distance, parse, encode, frame, re-frame and twist a narrative that was probably better off without all that, on its own native powers of persuasion.
In some ways this is the opposite of the Banville / Black conundrum. John Banville is a great writer who veers dubiously off track when he tries his hand at mysteries, as pseudonymic Benjamin Black. McEwan is a much-better-than-average mystery writer, who only earns the 'dubious' asterisk when he literaturizes an otherwise lovely tale and setting. (less)
This is a good solid account of a very intriguing history. Actual story of intel operations in wartorn Europe ... deception, deals, camouflage, disinf...moreThis is a good solid account of a very intriguing history. Actual story of intel operations in wartorn Europe ... deception, deals, camouflage, disinformation, scams, trickery ... spymasters and double agents galore. And with the protagonist a convicted felon, every trick has a few extra layers.
The tiniest details tell a lot : when they wanted to convince the other side that a certain secret chunk of war technology was available, deadly and miniaturized for easy concealment, the British Secret Service set about passing a story and a photo through the lines, via a double agent. He carried a special photo of the gizmo shown next to a wooden inch-ruler, to show scale. The other side wouldn't have known that the gizmo was real but the ruler was carefully constructed to be way over-scale, thus telling a slightly shady story of the miniaturization and the resulting deadliness....
MacIntyre has assembled a full slate of character & plot here, and does a lot better than 'Forgotten Fatherland: The Search for Elisabeth Nietzsche' which had some dull expanses along the way.
This is a great snowed-in winter weekend read, no fluff & no filler. Kind of like if the History Channel weren't quite so sleep-inducing.