My first outing with John McGregor was not a success. Despite the almost universal praise for If Noone Speaks of Remarkable Things, I stopped listening to the audio book somewhere in the middle of CD2. It was slow and sleep-inducing - never good, but potentially lethal when you’re driving. Besides that I really didn’t like the omniscient narrator looking down and describing everyday scenes in minute detail. It felt artificial. Normally that would be it for an author but I had to get my hands on the first novel in the UK to be published in bendyback format. Yes, it is lovely. Thus McGregor got his second chance.
Imagine then my disappointment on encountering the same narrative device on page one, paragraph 4 of McGregor’s latest. An inauspicious beginning. Thankfully, however, the power of the first sentence and the curiosity it awoke in me kept me reading.
They break down the door at the end of December and carry the body away.
Whose body? What has happened to it? The mystery is slowly unfolded in the course of 5 meandering chapters, switching backwards and forwards in time, as we follow the miserable lives of the dead man, Robert, and his fellow substance abusers on their inexorable downward spirals.
It’s dark. It’s powerful and it’s compulsive. Full of detail that I feel no delight in knowing but I simply could not look away. Successful as the writing may be, I’m not thanking McGregor for making me feel the desperate need of an heroin addict, trawling the town looking for a supplier, every nerve in his body screaming as he waits for the delivery, every sinew on edge while he searches for a vein healthy enough to accept the needle.
The title is taken from one of the high points of the novel. Back in the 80′s when Steve was still a functioning human being on a mercy mission in Bosnia.
Got to the bit where the policeman shut the doors of the truck again, and gave them back their passports, and said, So now, where you want to go? ….
So we told him the name of the town again … and this policeman just shook his head. Just like that. Looked off down the valley and shook his head. ….
No. You do not go. There is nothing for you there. There, even the dogs are dead.
There’s your warning – there’s no redemption in the pages of this book. Plenty of repetition - the life of a junkie is all about habit in ever-decreasing circles. Depressing in blocks capitals but peppered with humour of the blackest hue.
The man hours that go into living like this. Takes some dedication, takes some ****ing what, commitment. (My asterisks.)
As a result, I’d categorise Even the Dogs along with Jude The Obscure. Books so depressing they cheer you up. By comparison your own disasters aren’t so bad. It could definitely be worse.
For that perverse reason, I see myself revisiting this book. Perhaps on a second visit, I may appreciate the stylistic tricks that irritated on first reading such as the chapter comprised entirely of incomplete paragraphs. It simply begs the pun – style over substance. Like that composite omnisicient narrator – an irritation at first, until the identity becomes clear resulting in an exponential increase of emotional resonance.
While there’s no hope in the novel, there may yet be hope for McGregor and me.
1/2
Effi Briest - Theodor Fontane (Readalong 
The Beauty Room - Regi Claire
My Mother's Lover - Urs Widmer
The Help - Kathryn Stockett
The Rule of Four - Ian Caldwell and Dustin Thomason
Noir - Robert Coover
The Taint of Midas - Anne Zouroudi
Housekeeping - Marilynne Robinson
The Duel - Anton Chekhov
The Duel - Heinrich von Kleist
Gillespie and I - Jane Harris
State of Wonder - Ann Patchett
Titus Groan - Mervyn Peake
CIty of Dreadful Night - Peter Guttridge
Shadow Sister - Simone van der Vlugt
A Far Cry From Kensington - Muriel Spark
The Assault - Harry Mulisch
Next World Novella - Matthias Politycki
The Water Theatre - Lindsay Clark
Water For Elephants - Sara Gruen
The Liberation of Celia Kahn - J David Simons
Nocturnes - Kazuo Ishiguro
Hotel Du Lac - Anita Brookner
I loved this novel. I thought that the style was the substance – I felt drugged reading Even the Dogs because of it – and emphasized with the characters.
It’s funny that this is the one everyone seems to have picked for the Booker longlist…
…and got wrong
I got it wrong too although I did consider removing it from my list. I kept it there because it is so obviously bookerish – stylistic tricks, non-linear narrative with an overdose of gloom. But I do understand why it didn’t make the literary cut – the grittiness and the monotone.
I think the Booker judges made a good call.
I haven’t given this book a try… yet. I as unsure about it because of If Noone Speaks of Remarkable Things which most of the world went mad for while I found myself slowly chugging hrough the longest short book I have ever known.
Oh If Noone Speaks of Remarkable Things… what a slow and dreary book. I finished it because I just felt I had to but if I had my time again I would have just given up on it. Weirdly this book appeals to me which is rather odd… I have it on the TBR but havent quite succumbed so far.
I didn’t finish it either! I’m so glad I’m not the only one who found it heavy going!
I loved this book. He’s my kind of author. The style seems completely natural to me, much less contrived than many authors I come across.
LOL! I agree. I like reading depressing books as they make me realise how lucky I am. I really enjoyed this book, but I’d have preferred it to have a bit more plot. I am very surprised it didn’t make the Booker long list – I thought he had the short list in the bag!
Ah. I ordered this the other day, so I just skimmed your review, but I read enough to know what I’m in for now! I did mostly like Jude the Obscure – it’s bleak but strangely not as depressing as the film. Still, I’m a little worried now. “Style over substance” can work, um, occasionally?