Andrew Hook’s novel Ponthe Oldenguine is an extremely difficult book to talk or write about, but this is not to say it is a difficult read. The book is fairly brief and is strange enough to hold your interest, even if you only keep reading to figure out how Hook is going to bring together all the threads he unspools. The narrator, whose identity I will, in the interest of avoiding spoilers, resist revealing here, is a journalist in search of the story that will boost his career out of mediocrity. To that end, he decides to spend a couple of nights on the street with the homeless as fodder for one of those all too familiar “experience how the other half lives” stories. He takes his sleeping bag and holes himself up in a doorway across from a Greggs. The first night out, he meets Ponthe, a man who somehow knows he is facing a reporter and is determined to tell his life stories (yes, plural).
What I mean when I say this is difficult to write is about is that the above is pretty much all that can be said without giving everything away. However, even if I were to spoil everything for you, it wouldn’t truly make sense. Ponthe Oldenguine is both utterly confusing and utterly absorbing, and there is no way to convey the experience, it simply must be read. In being read, however, Hook’s novel requires you to dive deeper and deeper into nonsense, into contradiction and into fantasy, while reconciling baffling bits of realism. He sets up the conventions of truth, narrative and fiction, then rubs them raw at the edges so they begin to bleed into one another. Reading Ponthe Oldenguine is a deeply unsettling experience, one that left me feeling as though I had fallen off the edge of reality along with the journalist, sucked in by cold nights on the street, conspiracy theories and videotape of boots stomping on cakes.
We are confronted with the ridiculous every day. Andrew Hook simply asks, “What would happen if it were all true?”