Cussedness
The natural cussedness of things in general.
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The Road Home by Rose Tremain
Sometimes the reading of a book is inextricably tied to the place and time in which it is read. Sometimes reality insists on throwing up events that will remain in the memory of the reader, permanently associating themselves with the story being read. It takes a special kind of book to override the reader’s feelings towards those events, to allow the reader to engage fully with the story separately from what is happening to and around them in the real world. The Road Home did that for me.
Rose Tremain’s latest novel is the story of Lev, an economic migrant from some unidentified ex-communist Eastern Bloc country, who comes to London to seek work in order to support his aged mother and young daughter back home, and to attempt escape from his grief over the death of his wife. He doesn’t have an easy ride, he makes some big mistakes, and has his share of bad luck, but he refuses to be beaten, and makes a pleasingly human hero. The story of his progress in England is enjoyable and convincing, and every step towards the conclusion is well executed.Tremain is vicious in parts of her treatment of life in the British capital, using the outsider’s point of view to pick out and skewer the more ridiculous and unpleasant aspects of the city’s inhabitants and their activities, but she never allows this to come between her and her story (except perhaps in the case of one or two comic characters, such as the milliner who specialises in miniature hats and wears her preposterous creations to the pub). The reader is unlikely to feel that this tangential criticism of the failings of British society is more important than the telling of Lev’s story, or the crafting of the prose, which is never less than brilliant.
For various reasons I won’t be going into here, this last week has been rather unpleasant, but reading this book has distracted me from my worries, and has entertained and cheered me very effectively. Splendid stuff.