I am
currently reading two novels by women writers. One is entitled Mr.
Rosenblum’s list, with a subtitle that is longer than the queues at Heathrow.
It is the debut novel of Natasha Solomons. The other is entitled It’s
a Man’s World, which also has a subtitle. It is the sixth novel of
Polly Courtney, a former investment banker.
Mr Rosenblum’s List is about a Jewish man who arrives
in England from Berlin as a refugee, becomes wealthy by hard work and
enterprise, and is driven by a desire to assimilate—be like an Englishman. Towards
that end he wants to become a member of a golf club. Except that no golf club
would have him as a member (because he is Jewish). Undeterred Mr. Rosenblum
decides to build his own golf course and buys a cottage and 60 acres of land in
rural Dorset.
Mr. Rosenblum’s List has apparently been translated into
nine languages. The front page of the paperback edition has a comment from The
Times, which described the novel as hilarious. I am almost half-way
through the novel, having read 150 of its 310 pages. So far, the novel, while
not tedious, is not exactly gripping either. The protagonist Jack is obsessed
about building a golf course, helped by a hick from the nearby village. The narrative
is not particularly riveting and, while I would like Jack to complete his golf
course, the truth is I couldn’t give a toss whether he succeeds or not in his
endeavours. He is just not very interesting. I am also marooned in that section of the
novel where there is rather a lot about golf courses and golf-related scenes—about as
interesting as watching my moustache grow, as I have zero interest in golf. Jack's wife, Sadie, is a bit more interesting, but her character is not developed sufficiently. (The tedium is not relieved by long and repetitive descriptions of Dorset seasons and the flowers in the region.) Which
is a pity. The novel started with the quaintly charming list of means and ways
to become English. I am tempted to throw
in the towel, but will probably persevere, seeing as I have only 150 more pages
to go. I don’t know what twist in my character compels me to carry on reading
novels I don’t find interesting. Not finishing a novel feels like a personal failure
(when it ought to be seen as the failure of the writer to write a novel
engaging enough to keep the reader interested). At least I didn’t buy the
novel, but borrowed it from the library. The book is a bit like Aero chocolates: there is not much substance in it.
I have written on this blog about Polly Courtney when she publically ditched her
publishers (Harper Collins) because they had the cheek to promote It’s
A Man’s World as a chick-lit, i.e. something frivolous and racy when
what Courtney had attempted to do was write a novel on an important social
issue with a sombre message. It
interested (and amused) me to see a writer who (from the description
provided of said novel seemed like a chick-lit) throwing an apoplectic fit that
the publisher promoted it as a chick-lit. It was a bit like a butcher waving a
shoulder of lamb and shouting, ‘What? They killed a lamb?’ I had not read It’s A
Man’s World at that time (but I didn’t allow such trifles come in the
way of banging out a post).
Therefore,
when I spotted the novel last week in the library I decided to give it a go.
I have read
only the first two chapters of It’s A Man’s World, but already I am
finding the novel engaging and reasonably entertaining. It is an easy enough
read (partly because so far there are lots of dialogues—which I find easier and
quicker to read—rather than descriptions of nature). Also I think I am more
keen to find out whether Alexa, the heroine of It’s A Man’s World holds
her own as a managing director of a lad’s magazine than whether Jack completes
his sodding golf course.
And yes. It is
without doubt chick-lit.
