Warlight: a review

Well, this is frustrating. About a third of the way through Warlight, Michael Ondaatje's seventh novel and umpteenth book, I paused to write my impressions at that point. Only now that I've finished reading it, I can't find the notes. I do remember the gist of them though:

• what a disappointment 
• where is Ondaatje's trademark poetric mastery of language? 
• why is this book so boring? and 
• why are these people so insipid? 

Reading this book, after cherishing it on my 'to be read' shelf for most of two years,  reminds me of being all flustered to see a high school crush at your 20-year reunion, only to find he is fat, bald, and coasting off his BMOC days.

So, ya. Warlight, published in 2018, is not Ondaatje's best novel. Considering how powerful and lyric his first six novels were, that may not seem like a problem, but I was actually left, at times, wondering if Ondaatje even wrote Warlight. Only, I'm quite sure that he did. I am certain it was truly he at the author event I attended. It was the one and only Ondaatje I waited in line to have him sign my copy of the book, and then stupidly fangirled some predictable appreciative nonsense at him. He wouldn't go through all that for a book he didn't even write, right?

But this book. Given the context and the content - Britain post World War II, but reaching back to key elements of the war, including homeland and overseas intelligence, criminal elements, abandoned children - there should have been ample dramatic tension. There wasn't. At first I thought it was just the adolescent narrator failing to understand and so to convey life around him, but as the narrator ages, he doesn't gain any insight. I'd say more, but I'm not sure how to without spoilers.

Speaking of spoilers, I am glad I pushed on through the end. This was not, unlike The English Patient, or In the Skin of a Lion, or The Cat's Table, a page turner. There was no sweep of poetry or romance to pull me along. However, out of respect for the author - who remains one of my favourites - I carried on to the end. And the end was both surprising and satisfying.

So, that's really all I have to say about that. Read it or don't. I'm not sure I recommend it. I mean, we are at the beginning of social distancing and people seem to have more time on their hands, so maybe it's worth picking up.  If there are any of his earlier novels you haven't read, or if you read poetry, maybe try any other book of his instead.

good-bye, good friend

My first thought this morning on reading that Kenny Rogers has died was, "poor Dolly." My second thought was how grateful I am for all his music. 

Kenny Rogers was a surprising guilty pleasure for me as a teenager. I used to say I hated all country music except Kenny Rogers but it turns out he was a gate-way artist to other guitar-forward storytellers like Garth Brooks, The Dixie Chicks, and ... okay, maybe just those two. 

I discovered Kenny Rogers, beyond The Gambler, at a babysitting gig when I was 13 or 14. My beloved Shiney and her family had recently moved away, and I was missed her terribly. There wasn't a lot of other music in the house I was babysitting at, so I was working my way through Kenny Rogers and social studies when I heard this song and teared up. 

You were a good friend

I listened to it over and over again so I could write out the lyrics and send them to Shiney. In the process, I memorized every line, note and inflection. 

You were a maverick ...

We'd tell stories 'round the campfire late at night when it was down to just you and me ...

Good friend, why did you have to go,

Just when I was getting to know you?

I'll sing this song to show.

You were a good friend, 

They don't make them quite like you,

And in my memories, you'll always be, a good good friend to me. 

I'd go about my day and hum the chorus. Chetwynd was a lonely place for me as a teenager, and it helped to remember my loving friends in other towns. 

Life moves on. People grow and change. And friendships, like all relationships, flourish or wither depending on how they are tended. And nearly 40 years later, this song - even just that gentle piano intro - takes me back - to a beige sofa, a scratchy LP, and the moment Kenny Rogers bridged more than 260 miles for a lonely teenager. 

If I close my eyes, it doesn't hurt quite so bad.