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Jun 15, 2018wyenotgo rated this title 3 out of 5 stars
Let's be frank about this book: There's nothing likeable about its protagonist Geoffrey Firmin. He's a drunk, plain and simple, and not an amusing or good-natured drunk. When he's not beating himself up for being a hopeless alcoholic, he's busy feeling sorry for himself. There's nothing inspiring, uplifting, challenging or engrossing about the plot. And then of course there's the issue of the writing: Sentences running to half a page or more, encompassing multiple parentheses, wandering off aimlessly into topics of no particular relevance, to the point where one can no longer recollect what the sentence started out talking about. The structure and flow of the prose however varies greatly depending upon which character is front and center. Passages featuring Hugh flow smoothly, almost lyrically. Geoffrey's stream of (almost) consciousness however is disjointed, awkward, laborious to follow. Lowry clearly knew what he was doing but he certainly did not cut his reader any slack. So, what exactly is it that makes this a "great novel"? Easy and entertaining? Not in the least. Enlightening about the human condition? Not really. Much of it consists of the addled mutterings of a man drifting in and out of delirium. And yet, it was masterfully done. Having set out to carry the reader entirely into the murky half-reality of a self-destructive alcoholic, Lowry certainly succeeded. Atmospheric? You bet! One can smell the Bougainvillea. feel the burning noonday sun, hear the mournful dirge of funeral processions. The fatalism of of a disintegrating society at war with itself seeps into the narrative. Bottom line: A brilliant piece of laborious writing; admirable but not enjoyable. I found myself growing impatient, waiting for Geoffrey to meet his end and be done with it!