What’s Patrick Cunningham Reading?
A student of English literature by instinct and by trade, there is often a great deal of overlap between what I read for pleasure and what I read for my research. Because I work in
contemporary British literature, I find my tastes in fiction run in that direction, too, and so when it comes time to pick something to read, I usually first look across the Atlantic. There is an enduring quality to British fiction that does not exist in any other part of the world. British novelists specialise in biting critique and moving tragedy, producing works laced with humour that makes you laugh through the tears. To that end, my favourite recent reads echo this rather tortured and indelibly human disposition. The first is Sir Alan Hollinghurst’s 1994 novel, The Folding Star. Set in a small Flemish town, it follows Edward Manners, a thirty-something English tutor who falls in love with one of his students. Though the premise feels quite Nabokovian, the novel’s parallel plotline (a Hollinghurst speciality) sees Manners develop a close and revealing relationship with an art historian working at a museum dedicated to late nineteenth century Belgian painter Edgard Orst. Though Orst is entirely fictitious, the descriptions of his art and presence in Flemish culture feels very real, in part
thanks to the rigour and conviction of Hollinghurst’s lovely prose. Art, beauty, and queerness are perennial themes for this particular author, and they all develop a tortured relationship that the narrator does not try and resolve; some have critiqued Hollinghurst for not being able to get his endings quite right, but the messiness and abruptness of The Folding Star’s conclusion feels apt in a novel about desire and beauty that is set in a town whose dark canals are like narrative veins, always coursing away from the centre and out towards some distant and enveloping sea whose sudden tides can sweep you off your feet in a flash. Reading this novel often felt just like that. It was also a pleasure to read this text whilst in western Europe. Reading it in some public garden or waiting to meet a friend at an art gallery, I would often get an immediate sense for the art-laden, culture rich heritage that Europe still wields as its primary charm, as well as how intoxicating that charm can be on someone first experiencing its full force.
Departing entirely from the blue-shadowed coast of Flanders, The Buried Giant, by Sir Kazuo Ishiguro, is my next read, and one which I’m not yet finished. A recommendation to me by several friends (as well as my supervisor) The Buried Giant has been on my list for a while, largely on account of its intriguing premise. Set in post-Arthurian Britain, a middle-aged couple embark on a journey to see their son and encounter some curious characters along the way. It seems quite straightforward but knowing Ishiguro I have a feeling that some deep gut punch is just around the corner. The novel’s structure also feels refreshingly antique, a Pilgrim’s Progress for the twenty-first century where the focus is squarely on narrative
development and plot that moves ahead with reassuring evenness. At the moment, though, I don’t really know what’s going on, and I’ve been told not to expect much clarity, which seems fitting in a novel where a mysterious mist seems to give everyone a collective case of amnesia. The protagonists struggle to recall things that one might assume are unforgettable, like what their son looks like. I’m fascinated by this mist and its obstructive force in a society that believes in dragons and ogres and where even the idea of ‘England’ is still centuries away. Mythmaking, memory, and nationhood are primary themes here of particular interest to me as in my day job I research Thatcherism’s aesthetic influence on British literature. I catch traces of Thatcherite Britain here, whereby people struggling to remember their own history are instead furnished with tidy fictions about it in the form of myths, folk tales, and romantic fables that slowly replace reality. How can we remain clear-eyed about our present and future when we can’t accurately recall our past? In a world where we’ve got our own ogres terrorising entire continents, it’s a prescient question, and one that demands we remain vigilant about protecting our collective consciousness from the warping influence of extremism and hatred. If anything, it certainly makes for a splendid read.