Here She Be — The Battlements

     What if Her Majesty, the Queen of England, discovered the bookmobile? This delightful soup question is answered in Alan Bennett’s novella, The Uncommon Reader. The premise may seem gimmicky, but in fact the book is delightfully clever. The work gives itself over to a seemingly unimportant possibility and effortlessly produces enjoyment and interest. The novella in its entirety can be conquered in an afternoon, numbering only 120 pages. Yet the pleasure and intrigue are lasting, making it certainly worth the while.
     The mood of the book is very English, as it should be. The detail is scant, but it creates a definite mood that is remarkably crafted throughout the book. The content, including characters, setting, events, et cetera, all fit together in a very believable way, which adds to the quality of the humor. Jokes about what wins the public’s heart in a novel, or how to select a spot of reading based on the author make the story seem down to earth, rather than overwhelmed by the presence of royalty. The Queen herself becomes a likable and relatable character.
     However, this is a book that might require occasional use of a dictionary to get the full effect; still, the context does not exclude the passive reader. “Equerry” is a popular word in the book for example, but discerning that it means someone who waits on the royal family is not difficult. Other words such as “Antipodean” on the other hand are present, but not crucial to the humor or events; they serve more to set the mood.
     In a similar fashion, there are specific literary references: “not unlike Miss Havisham’s wedding feast … and Sir Kevin as Mr [stet] Pip.” Not that these descriptions are crucial to the goings-on, but being familiar with Dickens’ Great Expectations does provide another level of understanding. What makes some of these moments more fantastic are the modern literary references that include the likes of Harry Potter and how the Queen is “saving that for a rainy day.”
     A more striking undercurrent of the novel involves begging the question of what literature really offers its readers; “books, which, whatever else they might be, were just a reflection of the world … She had seen the real thing.” This theme lends an unexpected sincerity to the story. As the Queen wonders why books matter, so does the reader and a bond is formed that leads to exploration of a very important question: why read? And these sorts of questions are a consistent element throughout the story.
     The strongest running theme in the book is of self-discovery. There is an unexplored side to people that we can often only find in books, and in the Queen’s case this is exceptionally true. In her role as monarch for over fifty years, she has always been separate from the populace, and as she reads she begins to notice nuances about people that never occurred to her before. What begin as annoyances with writing that focuses on social diversity—something that from her station is hard to grasp—develop into delicate perceptions of the ways in which people say things without speaking a word. The Queen gradually transforms from beginning to end because of her reaction to avid reading. Looking back to the beginning of the book, the reader will find a very different woman than at the end.
     A second, yet equally resonating theme, revolves around the Queen’s age. Often people wonder why at her age she bothers to take to reading so strongly. There is a powerful message about how old age should not be considered a downhill existence. The Queen’s eightieth birthday is celebrated at the end of the book, and she is still interested in taking on new activities and exploring what life still holds for her. She has seen more of the world than most people can imagine, and met more dignitaries and notable persons than perhaps anyone in the world. With all we have done, there is always something else, and we should not be afraid as not to seek it out.

     Third string quarterbacks in the NFL tend to be shuffled from team to team unnoticed by most fans. This was the life of Rick Dockery, a good living with little fame, and then he made history—in a bad way. The Cleveland Browns with a shot at victory send Rick onto the field when the other two quarterbacks end up injured. Almost guaranteed a win, it should be simple tidying up. After three interceptions however, the game is lost, and Rick becomes known as the greatest goat in NFL history with little to no chance of ever playing again. Fortunately for him, there is an unknown NFL in Italy, and there is a team willing to pay him to play. But that is just the beginning of John Grisham’s new novel Playing for Pizza.
     Playing for Pizza is surprising in the simplicity of its storytelling. From Grisham’s law novels we expect him to be a writer with deep-seeded meaning and underlying plot twists, and while this work is not readily predictable, it leaves its themes up to the reader to amplify or reduce. Loyalty, love, friendship, dedication, and many other classic concepts present themselves, but they are in the course of Rick Dockery’s season playing football and living life amongst the profound culture of Italy. They are not drudged up and thrown in to make the writing seem more academic or of a higher literary quality, but rather, they occur naturally in the course of a man’s life. This is significant because in reading, the reader is given that coveted chance to simply enjoy a story.
     Coinciding with that, the writing style is clear and typically succinct; it provides the essential details and elaborates on the aspects that the reader would not be readily familiar with. And the story itself, although essentially straightforward, makes detours along the way that keep the reading interesting without being a burden. This obviously makes for a truly enjoyable read.
     Still, there are some drawbacks to Grisham’s simplistic style. Occasionally, the reader may very well feel as if they are missing something. The book feels like there should be a more pronounced thesis, while instead the text suggests a vague idea about a person finding their place in life. This insubstantial notion becomes more revelatory towards the end of the book, giving the much desired closure, but elements of doubt are bound to creep in.
     Redeeming this is Rick Dockery’s fantastic character, if only because he is very human. Rick is not the epitome of virtue or evil—he is muddled up somewhere in between. Sure, people often discuss how the imperfections of such and such a character lend to the realism and strength of a story, but regularly, those flaws become the sole focus of the book. Rick may do something that the reader will find disagreeable, but that transgression does not become the focus of what is happening. Like the themes, the details that make Rick real are allowed to blossom in the undercurrent of the story, which keeps the book moving and realistic in a way that is notably uncommon. The unity that this creates in the novel is the true genius of the work. Life is shown as a series of moments, some more memorable than others, that blend together seamlessly and overlap. This technique is so effective that sometimes when Rick remembers something that happened earlier, it genuinely feels like a memory.
     Playing for Pizza is not the fast-paced thriller or the carefully constructed psychological mind game that can be found in much of Grisham’s other writing. Instead, he tells an interesting, believable story in a straightforward fashion. What results, is an enjoyable book that the reader can connect to while buried within the pages. It’s not hard to put down, but it is easy to pick up, and Italy is a welcome change of pace.

     The name of the game is clients. Everywhere the nameless narrator goes he searches for potential clients. The music he listens to, the art he examines, and the magazines he reads all help him learn what his clients’ current tastes could be. But he is not a personal stylist or a lawyer seeking to bolster his clientele. We would call him sinister; although, the glimpses we catch of him throughout the book make him seem sincere. In Korean author Young-Ha Kim’s (translator Chi-Young Kim) novel I Have the Right Destroy Myself, the narrator who frames the story instructs those interested in doing just that—destroying themselves. He seeks out his clients, and although it seems obvious to him who might be unknowingly in search of his services, the reader is never entirely enveloped in that mindset.
     The book is a quick read at around 120 pages, but it leaves much to be desired. The aforementioned narrator has a section at the beginning and end of the story, but only appears briefly in the midst of the text. He does not even narrate the major body of the work, which involves two brothers K and C, who fall in love with the same girl, Se-yeon. Se-yeon does have contact with the mysterious narrator, but that is about the extent of it. The idea is that the book was anonymously written by the narrator, which makes sense, but it does not feel very strongly woven into the central story.
     The first two-thirds of the novel feel a lot like a young adult, teen thriller, which for the most part it is. However, towards the end the symbolism ties in and a strong theme develops. In this respect, the book was very effective, and the end of the book was a much more enjoyable read than the outset.
     What would seem the all-important theme of suicide is overridden by a plot that seems to be trying too hard to be original. And in fact it is. The storyline that lies underneath everything going on is very interesting with strongly sexual imagery and strange moments that highlight ideas of truth and love. It is a good story, but the direction it tries to go in seems questionable. The path of the story does not feel like a stretch, but rather, it is emphasized at the beginning, like a thesis statement, and then it fails to live up to its own goal. It does not fail to produce a worthwhile read; however, there are too many questions left unanswered, which the reader would reasonably expect to have at least more of a solid grasp on.
     The writing style itself seems generic, but this may simply be a result of the translation. So while it will not be boring, do not expect exceedingly clever wordplay.
     The characters are original, although confusing at times. They come across as more realistic simply by the virtue that they are sometimes very clearheaded, but other times hard to understand. They make sense in a way that is similar to the ways in which we relate to real people.
     All throughout a very strange, multilayered story is woven effectively and deliberately. Still, the question lies with whether or not much of the deliberation was given as to how to the theme of self-destruction is consistent and growing in the novel. Rather, it seems that Young-Ha Kim uses the first two-thirds of the book to establish his premises and then in the final third allows his work to make its big thematic debut. So, the book does provide some thrills and chills while exploring new variations on a fairly taboo theme, but it still leaves a lot to be desired. It is easy to see how much more this book could have done, and it is still worth looking into to see just how much it does do.
     I Have the Right to Destroy Myself is the perfect novel for an era where we are in constant debate over what rights we do and do not have, as well as what rights we are denied.