The Last of the Wine by
Mary Renault
My rating:
4 of 5 stars
This book was a lot of work, the most challenging book I've read, but it ended up being worth it.
I read this for a book club and if I had of been reading it on my own I probably wouldn't have finished it. I'm glad I did.
Before reading, I was advised to brush up on my Greek history. I have no idea where one would do this. I've never studied Greek history and knew nothing, nothing, going in.
I've never before read a book where you have to take notes, I've always kind of believed reading to be for pleasure, not work, and that the author has a responsibility to perhaps provide more clarity. But with the historical framework in place for this book and the constraints around accuracy, I think Renault did a fantastic job and if I had it to do over again, I would take notes.
I read the first 70 pages or so understanding very little and was expecting to hate the book, but suddenly the clouds cleared and I started to understand. There were periods where the lack of understanding came back, I still don't understand why people were exiled at the end fully, but there was a lot there. The fantastic precursor to the Olympic games, the starvation of the town, the implicit relationship between the hero and Lysis, all fantastic points in the book and overall the book really I feel gave me a foundation for Greek history that I'd like to now build on. It was great spending time in this far away, long ago world.
The book is very lyrical, the following passages stood out for me:
"Time and death and change are unforgiving, and love lost in the time of youth never returns again."
"Nor do I fear death as an evil, more than one fears sleep after a full day."
"Old sock, meaning that he would fit on either foot"
This book is not for everyone, it required work and took me about 3 weeks to read it.
The book is not perfect, it was published in 1956 and a few of the elements are dated to the period it was written. For example, the war is very black and white, Athens is good, Sparta is bad. Although the homosexual aspects of the book are everywhere, they are couched in discreet phrasing. When one of the characters swears, he doesn't say the words but rather refers to "I said something I shall not repeat here". Sex is all implied. I think these things all speak to the period the book was written and the British upbringing of the author.
These are not really flaws though. There's quite a lot going on, a lot to take in, and a lot to take away.
I still feel the book could have been a little more clear, and the pacing was a little uneven, so four stars.
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‘Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze./ Hair: brown. Lips: scarlet./ Age: five thousand three hundred days./ Profession: none, or “starlet”.’ That sinister little jingle has been going round in my head ever since I first read Lolita in the early 80s. Back then I thought it was exciting and taboo-smashingly controversial – which it is – but over the years I’ve found it harder to go along with Humbert Humbert’s horribly seductive persuasions. And that, of course, is exactly what Nabokov was up to, pinpointing what was to become one of the biggest anxieties of our times, paedophilia. Lolita is without doubt one of the greatest masterpieces of C20th literature, and the only reason it’s not higher in this list is because I find it really gruelling to read these days, even though it does all the things I want novels to do. It’s funny, it’s got engaging, pacy narrative and an unmistakeable voice, that of HH himself – likeable, plausible, pitiful. Just typing about him makes me feel uneasy. I love all the Nabokov I’ve subsequently read, particularly the magnficient Despair, but Lolita towers over the lot of them. Footnote: I never knew until now that there had been an ‘acclaimed but failed’ musical Lolita, My Love by no less a team than Alan Jay Lerner and John Barry. What were they thinking?
OK, I’m cheating here, because I’ve just finished reading this and it’s been washed into the Top 100 on a tidal wave of enthusiasm. London Belongs to Me is exactly the sort of novel that I dream about discovering, and so rarely do. It’s a big busy book about the residents of a south London boarding house during the Second World War, and it’s written in an elegant, conversational tone that disguises the superb craftsmanship of the narrative. Collins (a hugely successful author who went on to become one of the most important post-War TV executives) handles his large, diverse cast with a juggler’s skill, and manages to juxtapose sentiment, comedy and hard-boiled action without ever striking a false note. There’s a camp old retired actress living upstairs, a phony Spiritualist medium in the basement and all human life in between. They eat disgusting food, smoke a lot of fags and trundle around streets that we are still familiar with. The fact that it’s set in Kennington, just down the road from my house, makes it a special joy. Oddly, the introduction to the Penguin reissue goes to great lengths to tell us that London Belongs to Me is a second-rate novel, ‘just a soap opera’ etc, which is absolute bollocks. I can’t recommend it highly enough.
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