Divination

A divining wooden leg; it twitches and pulls when it finds underground water - funky, eh? It's one of the few constant possessions of Henry Smart, the linchpin of Roddy Doyle's novel, A Star Called Henry - first volume of The Last Roundup. I bought the book months ago from the Oxfam bookshop in Cambridge but didn't get round to reading it until the train journey this last weekend (though I've just finished it in the comfort of home). Doyle's style is very readable. It's not (usually) clunky, and he doesn't push effects too far. He's a master of dialogue and idiosyncratic turn of phrase. He is funny, with a darkly aware edge. He is not too explicit, nor obstructively obscure. Vitally, I think, the characters come through as a much stronger presence than their creator. It's the same in The Woman Who Walked into Doors, a very different but very strong little book.

A Star Called Henry traces the main-man's life from birth through to the end of his teenage years. Narrated by Henry himself (even at birth, which is a bit weird - though somehow it works as Henry possesses a self-knowledge and assurance that's convincing enough for anything to be possible), his story develops alongside the rise of Irish nationalism and the increasing activity of the I.R.A. It helps to know something about Irish history (and geography, to an extent) in order to follow the plot. Henry is one of those people who is involved in everything, but not quite important enough to get the credit for it. He's a vital shadow, invisible but essential. Doyle treads a thin line between historical inaccuracy and plausible happenings, though I think the balance works out because Henry does manage to stay on the right side of obscure. But in that way Doyle gives his very ordinary man extraordinary characteristics and roles. It's good. It's funny, sad, humanitarianly terrifying and literarily engaging. And I come back to the dialogue - Doyle is one of the best speech-writers I've read, because his characters don't say too much (a flaw of so many writers, who put their own words and plots into characters' mouths for too long a time. It becomes unsustainable).

It's tempting to write a bit about the plot because its historical basis is really interesting, but I won't - spoilers are annoying, and reading a good book for pleasure for the first time should, I think, involve surprise and discovery. So read it. I'll seek out the second volume at some point (Oh, Play That Thing), and hopefully will enjoy it as much - given the consistence of Doyle's writing, I see no reason why I won't. There was a stretch of about 30 pages towards the end of the book where the subject, writing style (yes, I mean syntax) and even the words came together in an unfortunate predictable clump; but that was it - and 30 duff pages out of over 300 really isn't a bad tally (and they're all together, so it's over fast!). I'm not sure why that happened (though it's easy to see how it did). I think one of the reasons I like his writing is because he deals with difficult topics and people whilst neither making them trite nor too heavy; he is a fantastic writer, good enough to get lost in the first time and to be gainfully revisited, but not so challenging as to be too-slow progress. S. Clayton Moore claims that this is "not a beach read", but I beg to differ - I think it's a perfect beach read, for those who like their books, and aren't so fond of beaches.