Coast to Coast with William Finnegan

A review quote on the back of my copy of Barbarian Days by William Finnegan reads: "I don't know anything about surfing, but I was gripped by the intensity of his language" (Olivia Laing, Guardian). This most likely sums up the experience of many of Finnegan's readers. But I also find this quote near-offensively simplistic.

Finnegan is perhaps best known for being a long-standing staff writer at the New Yorker, reporting often from conflict and war zones, including South America, South Africa and Sudan. So what does it say about his talents that he also won the Pulitzer Prize for biography in 2016 with his 500-page epic, Barbarian Days?

Part-memoir, part travel epic, definitely surf-epic, the book charts Finnegan's journey from childhood to adulthood - a journey in both a physical and chronological sense. To all four corners of the world and back, always chasing the perfect wave, this is a life lived on the road and an adventurous example of how we're always searching for something new. It's a true life, yet reads like a mesmerizing piece of fiction to many of us.

You may be hesitant due to the simple fact that you don't care about surfing, but I would urge you to read on before you make your decision.

Why should you read it?

As all good travel writing, Barbarian Days has more to say than describing waves. If I had to identify a theme, it would have to be something like coming of age - though I'd rather not. Because we might think of coming-of-age books as finished by the age of around 25, while what Finnegan shows is that we never really stop coming of age. After finishing school, he embarks on an epic journey, circumnavigating the globe and stopping at the most isolated spots to surf, seemingly never quite satisfied, always ready to move on to the next best thing. This is the first element that makes the book hugely relatable.

There's also the simple fact that Finnegan's life reads like an adventure novel, albeit a very realistic one. I couldn't help shaking my head almost constantly. At the then uninhabited Tavarua Island in Fiji, he nonchalantly describes coming to grips with the dadakulachi, the three-step snake, so nicknamed due to estimated distance you would be able to make after it bit you (supposedly the world's sixth-deadliest snake). Other times, he writes that "Frequently, there came a moment when I thought, No, never mind, this is getting too heavy, I want to go back to shore. But it was always too late then." Reading about this controversial mind-set he faces almost every time he arrives to shore - the waves are too big, I definitely shouldn't go in, here I go - was one of the best elements of the book, as well as how he learnt to control himself in life-threatening situations and not lose his head. Surfing reads almost like a religion.

It is an in-depth glimpse into the obsession, the philosophy and mind-set of this world, one completely foreign to me. Yet due to his powerful descriptions and awe that shine off the pages, it looped me in. And despite the fact that a life of surfing can leave you mentally and physically impaired, Finnegan keeps coming back to this one constant element of his otherwise rather malleable existence. Like one long, continuous wave, it ebbs and flows throughout the book. 

What was I not massively fond of?

Sure, there were times where for me, the surfing descriptions got a little too long, where I didn't feel as connected to the narrative as before. Some sections are action-packed, and some will just be ordinary days of a life, working and surfing and quarreling and surfing again. But I can hardly complain about the author telling a true story.

Finnegan is honest throughout, and there will be some decisions we may disagree with or scratch our heads in confusion - the logical isn't always the answer. It's hard to imagine that this is only one person's story. Finnegan builds lives in so many different places in the world, only to deconstruct them a month or two later, that he comes to embody almost a spiritual existence, a metaphor of the vagabond. And yet, he's as real as can be. Perhaps it's good for us to read something so far removed from our comfy sofas and daily commutes. 

Overall...

What is the worst way you imagine yourself to die? For me, it is drowning under a giant wave. Nothing is scarier. I've tried surfing once, in knee-high water, and even that was terrifying. So to read a memoir of someone living a life doing the thing that scares me most was a fascinating experience.

Finnegan will make you feel like a newbie, an amateur, a poser; he talks about how surfing went from something completely unknown to 'sport' status, how it became a symbol. Now it's due to be an official sport in the Olympics. So here's an honest account of what it feels like to devote a massive chunk of your life to this obsession, while coming to grips with jobs, settling down, starting a family and what happens to our values in the meantime. 

Despite its exotic aspects, this is not escapism: it is a stressful, beautiful human account of the search.

8/10

Going rogue with Robert Macfarlane

It's usually around March or April every year that I start craving for green. This is when I start planning mini-getaways: as far from the city as possible, usually to remote UK villages with only one pub and, if I'm lucky, a shop. It's normally a really strong feeling as is, but after reading The Wild Places by Robert Macfarlane, the feeling has tripled to never-before-seen heights, to the point were I almost feel desperation.

And I guess that's exactly what you'd expect from one of the most well-known and established nature writers. Robert has written several books on travel, adventure and landscape - this was the first book of his that I picked up. He also collaborated on two films and one of his books is currently being turned into songs. He is often mentioned alongside Barry Lopez, the author of Arctic Dreams (my next read), a book for which he won the National Book Award.

The Wild Places describes Robert's search for the remaining wild, hidden gems in the UK. But the most fascinating aspect of the book is how his definition of 'wild' shifts throughout the narrative. He starts out describing it as we would do so too, presumably: a place where no cars are to be seen, no roads to be crossed, where humans haven't built houses or erected lamp posts or opened a Londis corner shop. And he does, in the first third of the book, travel to these places: on Ynys Ennli (The Island in the Currents in Welsh), he sleeps under the stars imagining the monks who braved the currents to travel to this faraway point, between around AD 500 and 1000. In the valley of Coruisk on the Isle of Skye, he bathes in the untouched loch and gazes up at the sky as it merges with land.

But as he travels more and writes down his thoughts, he comes to appreciate the wild at its smallest - from grand-scale, hidden corners of the world he comes to appreciate his own backyard as a place that is somehow also wild. This journey from grandiose to minuscule is what really hooked me, because he makes the inaccessible - the places I can only dream of - accessible.

The book is broken down into sections about individual travels, and no two are the same: from Island to Moor, to Storm Beach to Saltmarsh. All natural wonders in their own rights, and as he travels alone or with friends, he writes about their geography, flora and fauna so vividly we can almost smell the sea air or shiver with the cold that chills him to the bone at night.

Robert's writing is subtle, beautiful and insightful. He translates natural imagery and relates it to everyday concerns; he shows the bad and the good of human efforts, mourns the losses of the truly wild but points out what we still have. And although we're clearly doing more bad for the planet than good, there is still so much for us to grasp - and that's the positive message of The Wild Places.

It breaks my heart that I am tied to the rail network in terms of what areas I can reach. The UK has so many fantastically beautiful national parks, moors, valleys and peaks to explore, but as I haven't been practicing my driving, I can't get further than my millennial rail card can reach. Thanks to Robert, I know how to appreciate even the little wildness I'm allowed within the limits of London, too - but I have to admit I would give my left arm sometimes to be able to leave the city behind for good.

I'm really glad I discovered Robert's book, and with him a whole network of nature writers whose work he mentions and that I will be reading through. Back when I read Kings of the Yukon by Adam Weymouth I knew I wanted more of that. Now, here it is.

9/10

A toast to Maurice Hannigan

I feel so strongly about this wonderful debut by Anne Griffin that I am struggling not to simply jump to the 'Overall...' section and send you on your way to read it.

I am mad though. Mad that in When All is Said, Anne has written exactly the kind of book that I hope to write some day. Quiet. Reserved. Uniquely, simply structured, yet powerful enough to make your eyes wet several times throughout.

84-year-old Maurice Hannigan is sitting in a bar. Over the course of one short evening, he will raise five toasts - stout, whisky, stout, whisky, whisky - for the five people who have shaped his life most powerfully. Five people, five internal monologues, connected in telling his own story as well as those around him. And all linked by a single, rather valuable gold coin.

What did I like about it?

This simple set-up leads to liberated, free storytelling, the kind that reads like an adventure story - even though it is simply the life of an Irish farmer from a poor family, rising through the ranks, getting married, fathering a child and experiencing all the complications of life that come with it. This is where the book's power lies: making the simple into something beautiful. The returning motif of the gold coin, from the way he obtained it in the first place to what happens to it in the end, adds to this adventure-like feeling though, touching on the inexplicable and repetitive patterns of life and satisfyingly showing us that what goes around does often come around.

Maurice's voice is clear, consistent and free of melancholy or sentimentality. He recounts his life as his own worst judge, pointing out the times he wishes he'd done something differently or now recognizes that he had done wrong. Above everything else, he's great at pointing out small struggles that only an observant eye could spot, but things we all encounter from time to time: "Each time, I swear to myself that this time will be different, that I'll make the effort. That I'll ask about your job and what you're working on. And I promise myself I'll listen to you with my whole body and every ounce of concentration in me ... But as soon as you walk in the door sure it's like a bolt closes over my mouth."

Every character he paints a picture of - all those subject to a toast - comes across strong and interesting, and despite the short chapters, their relationship with Maurice and relevance to the story are crystal clear by the end of each section.

What was I not massively fond of?

Of course, there is always the risk of making a slightly mysterious sister in an asylum into a cliché. Anne doesn't let it slip for the most part. Maybe her 'sparkle, sparkle' "catchphrase" (with many quotation marks) has been done before, which could have been left off, but that might be personal preference.

Perhaps the only section I would have done differently is that of when the five toasts are finished. Maurice is staying at the hotel - at the honeymoon suite, no less - but before he heads up to the room, he takes a slightly wobbly dance outside, in the rain, which felt a little forced, perhaps. I'm not sure he strikes me as the type of person who dances.

Perhaps I would have cut it short, even - after all, the ending is implied throughout. I have a feeling you've guessed it even by reading this review. Perhaps I would have left him at the bar, leaving him to enjoy the final moments of his story alone, undisturbed.

Overall...

Some reviews, even the blurb, make Maurice seem almost mean. I don't see meanness though. I see a man looking back on his life, nursing regrets but also taking note of the beautiful things; a man who has struggled to express his emotions, but who was understood by those around him.

At only 264 pages, this book is short - which only adds to its value. It is carefully crafted, well-written, never over the top, never pouting or bragging. It's a quiet, beautiful experience that will lift you up (and as previously stated, might make you weep in public places).

When All is Said is a true gem.

9/10

Speak now? Or forever hold your peace?

The three steps to reading The Idiot by Elif Batuman: one, find out that it had been nominated for the Women's Prize for Fiction in 2018 and become mildly interested. Two, find out that the author is a New Yorker staff writer and become rather interested. Three, have your friend make a joke about the title in the charity shop, excitedly pick it up and be completely satisfied.

What is The Idiot? It is the story of Selin, an American-born Turkish girl of 18 who is starting out as a freshman at Harvard just as email is becoming a thing and mobile phones are nowhere to be found as of yet. It is not coming-of-age and it is at the same time; the blurb says it's about Selin facing the challenges of adulthood, but I completely disagree (and feel that whoever wrote the blurb wasn't really trying at all or hasn't read the book). It's more about observation and coming to terms, then seeing if there are other ways of doing things; from making friends to falling in love to learning languages. Language, in fact, is probably the dominating theme - do we think differently in different languages? Does language limit our interpersonal connections? All this through a charming and hilarious point of view.

What did I like about it?

Despite its shiny credentials, of course I was skeptical when starting out. What could this book possibly present about being 18 that I haven't read about or experienced? Nothing, it turns out, but in a way that makes it feel completely fresh and new. The strength of the book, and its complete uniqueness, lies in the defamiliarised, humorous point of view of the first-person narrator. With the entire book consisting of short, snappy sections, usually the longest ones running over three pages, it feels almost as if every short section ends in a snappy punchline by Selin, keeping the tone light and entertaining the whole way through. "Having hit Send, I walked to the snow-covered river, sat on a bench, and ate cashews. The sky looked like a load of glowing grayish laundry that someone had washed with a red shirt." End section.

By not taking itself too seriously, it manages to convince us readers that the topic is, in fact, to be taken seriously indeed. You wouldn't expect to believe the things an 18-year old might say, but you believe Selin. Although the book's most significant aspect is a platonic love between her and a Hungarian senior named Ivan, it also manages to explore friendship, travel, developing a personality and more philosophical questions about the self in depth.

A strong accompanying theme in the book is language and its limitations. While at university, Selin's courses mostly revolve around different mediums: linguistics, art, film, Russian - and how expressive these channels are. Her relationship with Ivan is based on the fictional quality of emails; Ivan would rather limit their communications purely to email, even avoiding saying hello to keep within the frameworks of written communications. For a while, anyway.

It also has to be noted that, being Hungarian, I appreciated an American writer taking the time to explore Hungarian language, personalities and even geography (the last quarter of the book, in fact, takes place in Hungary). The unfamiliar pair of eyes on my country actually made it look quite nice, I think. And regarding Hungarians, she was spot on:

"Rózsa snorted. 'Of course you don't like Tünde. Who likes Tünde? ... Tünde is not interesting! What about me? What do you think about me?" Typical.


What was I not massively fond of?

Speaking of the limitations of language, it has to be said that an excellent writing style can only take you so far, and perhaps at times I felt like the plot moved a little slow. Especially towards the end, maybe I would have cut out a few pages to make the book slightly shorter. It's not that I was weary of the language, but I sometimes felt impatient to find out certain plot points, and would have rather moved on than lingered. But this goes to show that rather than telling your stereotypical story, Batuman relishes the opportunity of playing around with language:

"'You don't feel food,' Owen said, 'you taste it.'
'Yes,' Béla said. 'But I also mean more than to taste it.'
'You enjoy it,' suggested Daniel. 'If you eat slowly, you enjoy the food.'
'You enjoy,' repeated Béla.
'You relish it,' said Owen. 'You savor it.'
'Savior?'
'Not savior - savor. It's like enjoying something, but more slowly.'
'I don't know this word,' Béla said, his eyes shining."

Also, for the most part, Ivan was a complete a-hole.


Overall...

Once I finished The Idiot, I also found out that it was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in fiction, so if you needed more convincing that this is a kind, humorous exploration of being a person and that it's extremely good, surely now you don't need any more.

In fact, for a feel of the book, just head to Elif's website; her writing style comes across straight away.

My best advice is to try not to focus on the story too much, and just enjoy Batuman's excellent writing, and a character full of... character?...

Have I run out of language?...

8/10