I think I'm going to enjoy writing about Louis Begley's Shipwreck more than I enjoyed reading it. Probably a lot more. There's so many ways to describe why I was so disappointed in this book.
The main character, and essentially the narrator of the story (though it's told through the filter of a mostly-silent third party), is John North. North is a published author of several novels of critical success and a faithful, loving husband to Lydia. Faithful, that is, until he meets young journalist Lea and begins an affair with her.
The disappointing part was that this had potential to be a good story - potential that went unrealized for the most part. Shipwreck has a good ending, I will give it that, but getting there is simply a chore, and the payoff isn't worth the extra effort.
The story is basically a character study, but the main problem is that John North isn't an interesting enough character to merit a study of such length. North is neurotic and arrogant and prissy, which would all be fine if he had something interesting to say - but he doesn't. He questions and doubts and bends over backwards trying to gaze into his own navel constantly. His neuroses infect every aspect of the story and his passions are as tepid as the coffee you forgot to drink earlier this morning.
North cannot seem to say something straight out - he wanders from point to point as he tells his tale, bouncing off tangential stories often. This reminded me of the wanderings of Jose Saramago, who often rambles on as well. The sharp contrast is that Saramago wanders into flights of fancy and imagination crafted in language that makes you want to weep, while North, in Begley's hands, rambles deeper and deeper into the mundane. One makes the tangents worth reading on their own merit, the other makes them feel like roadblocks to the story.
There's nothing special about the craft of 'Shipwreck' either. The language is nothing to brag about and the story structure in linear and predictable. I suspected the ending would be at least a high point of the book, and I was at least right in that, but as I say, getting there was much, much harder than it needed to be.
Comparisons leap to mind. If Shipwreck was a piece of music it would be most likely heard in an elevator, unobtrusive background noise played through tinny speakers. If it were a meal it would be vaguely satisfying but bland, something slightly greasy purchased at a drive-up window. If it were a razor blade it would be dull from use and irritating on the skin. If it were a painting it would be something seen on the wall of a hotel room - flat colors depicting a generic landscape, something safe and unoffensive.
There are better books along these lines - Susan Minot's Rapture, for example, is a much more engaging story and told very thoughtfully, and actually expresses real passion and emotion without overplaying it. Put simply, Shipwreck looked to be a story about hidden passions and life-changing decisions, but instead was an examination an uninteresting, neurotic, and ultimately cowardly character.
And yes, writing about it was far more fun than reading it.