I Know This Much Is True

Thursday 22nd March 2010, 3.20pm, Beachcomber Island

I'm aware that I do go on about books that I've read on my travels quite frequently. But to be honest, you've got off remarkably lightly, I'm usually much more prolific in my book chat than this. Just ask any of my close friends and I'm sure they'll happily attest to the fact that I become reasonably boring in my constant desire to discuss and dissect and debate novels I've read. I could talk about books I love forever, and probably will. Maybe I should see if anyone wants to pay me to write about them; Grace Gillman, Literary Critic, that would be jolly nice. Then I could spend a stupid amount of time reading and no one would be able to tell me I was wasting my time, because it would be my JOB to be boring about books! I should have thought of this sooner!

I become distracted. I'm writing today to tell you about the book I have just finished, Wally Lamb's, 'I Know This Much Is True'. I came across it in entirely serendipitous circumstances, having read myself out of mine and Ella's reading material (although I point blank refused to touch her copy of 'Rubbish Boyfriends' by Jessie Jones, it offends me that money is spent printing that garbage, I'm just surprised it didn't have illustrations) I was on the way to the book shop and exchange at the Beach House, dreading what manner of Jilly Cooper, Sophie Kinsella, Marian Keyes and Jodi Picoult dross I was going to find there.

Walking through the bar I caught sight of a lone abandoned book on a shelf by the snooker table. There was no library label or name in the front cover, and it had been sellotaped down the spine to hold the two separated halves together, I like a well-loved book. I was initially perturbed by the presence of an Oprah's Book Club sticker on the front, guessing that this might mean it was some kind of self-help preaching manifesto, but then I remember that Oprah likes Toni Morrison, so she can't be all bad. Turning it in my hands to read the blurb I was instead met by an onslaught of critics' opinions that said things like;

'Every now and then a book comes along that sets new standards for writers and readers alike. Wally Lamb's latest novel is stunning - and even that might be an understatement... this is a masterpiece.'
'A rich literary tapestry that is an affirmation of life.'
'Twice as thoughtful and twice as heart-wrenching as most published this year... impossible to forget.'
'A late twentieth century Les Miserables.'
'The only thing bad about Wally Lamb's new novel is that it's too good.'
'There are no superlatives impressive enough to describe this... the saga of the century.'

Well then. All this praise just left me mightily confused as to how the hell I'd never heard of this author or this book? Why don't I pay more attention to the New York Times Bestseller List? Why am I not a literary critic too? Why haven't I written my book yet instead of this silly blog? Why don't I watch Oprah? I become distracted again. You can probably guess what I'm going to say about Lamb's novel can't you, it's not going to be 'yeah, weren't bad' is it. Without wanting to hammer home the message too rigidly after all those critics' plaudits, I will tell you simply first, that yes, it is an astounding feat of literary genius, it is 900 pages of storytelling perfection that make you wish it had been double, triple it's already magnitudinous length. I've just finished it and I am fighting the urge to go back to page 1 and start all over again.

It is a fully developed exploration of contemporary suffering and redemption, it is inspiring, disturbingly comic, devastating, symmetrically crafted, a soulful consideration of all that hurts and heals us. Right at the centre of this book is an epic modern day survivor, a man who is flawed and selfish and angry and guilty of betrayal, and yet you love him all the more for his very human failings, you so desperately want him to have the happy ending he deserves. He should go down, in my opinion, as one of the greatest literary examples of troubled human life and heroism ever written.

I couldn't possibly tell you what it's about, because it is about everything. But if you intend to read it I would warn you to prepare yourself for a heavy study in tragedy. I was shedding a quiet tear to myself at one particularly emotive part and Ella asked me why it was sad? "Schizophrenia, cot death, self mutilation, child abuse, domestic violence, oppression of women, racism, divorce, depression, rape, social injustice, death, betrayal, humiliation, unrequited love", I answered.
"I don't think I want to read that book", she said.
But she'll be missing out if she doesn't. I have read a lot of books in my 23 years, and I really do mean A LOT of books, possibly hundreds. This, this book of Wally Lamb's, is one of the best I have ever found, and if you're any kind of smart cookie you'll take my advice and find it for yourself, I know that much is true.