G. by John Berger

One of those novels that is always described in vague, emphatic one-word epithets; 'luminous', 'extraordinary', etc. etc. I can appreciate that it's a very intelligent and intricately crafted novel, but personally I didn't enjoy it very much. There is a lot I did like; some of the imagery was fascinating and original, sometimes the prose was very lush and beautiful and reminded me of John Banville, and I really enjoyed the philosophical and analytical reflections, which read like little gems of criticism embedded in the rest of the text. But I don't like the short paragraphs the entire novel is told in, and I don't like the abrupt, choppy sentences. I don't think it conveyed the sense of the historical moment (late 19th-early 20th century) at all, it seemed like all of the action was happening in the 1970s (when it was written). I couldn't care less about any of the characters. And mostly, it was just so horribly dense. I can't stand writing that is solemn about sex, I just can't do it, I start laughing at the absurdity of it. There's a great deal of serious, earnest, ponderous reflection and philosophising about sex, and it seems so ridiculous to me. I think my biggest complaint is that this book is utterly devoid of a sense of humour, and I came away with the feeling that John Berger has never laughed, will never laugh, and could never possibly laugh.