Customer Reviews

Downriver (or, The Vessels of Wrath): A Narrative in Twelve Tales

5 star:		(2)
4 star:		(1)
3 star:		(0)
2 star:		(4)
1 star:		(0)

 

 

Iain Sinclair is one of the masters of modern English prose, and he deserves to be much better known outside of Britain. If a writer's visibility were proportional to his sheer talent, Sinclair would have a profile as high as Martin Amis or Salman Rushdie, two other British writers with whom his talent is--at least--on a par.
"Downriver" takes us to Sinclair's familiar turf, the East End of London and eventully transports us all the way downriver to the mouth of the Thames, but the real geography mapped here is the one inside Iain Sinclair's head. This man's imagination is incredibly fertile, and it rarely flags. I would compare him to Pynchon, Grass, Kafka, even Garcia-Marquez. But I must also go further afield and compare him to Blake and Coleridge. One of his blurb writers calls Sinclair "a demented magus of the sentence." Now that I've read "Downriver," I understand exactly what that means.

I'm not even going to pretend that I really know what this book was about, all I do know is that months after reading it, I cannot get the book out of my head.
Here is what I do know: the book is about London, a seedy side of London, a side of London that Dickens wrote about, only Sinclair is writing about the 20th century version of that London. The language is updated and exponentitally more graphic, the characters participate in activities that Dickens characters could not conceive of, and the plot is more convoluted, if there actually is a plot, that is. The book is divided up into 12 sections, and at first I thought the sections were connected, then I realized they weren't, then I thought they were, and then I still thought they were, but only in ways I did not understand. I was confused, enthralled, intrigued, frustrated, and fascinated, and only when exhausted did I put the book down, turning each page in the hopes that the next page woud contain the answers to the multitude of questions every preceding page produced.
One thing is not up for debate, though, and that is Sinclair's ability to write. Like Joyce, Pynchon, Foster Wallace, the highly underrated William Gaddis, Sinclair does what he wants with the English language and seems to do it with ease. At times dense, other times frivolous (not many, these other times), profane in a way that hints at sacredness, Sinclair challenges your every notion about what makes a good story, what makes a good book, what makes an interesting read. I do not read books twice- there are way too many out there to waste my time on the same one twice- but this one will be the exception to the rule.
Challenging- without a doubt. Worth it- most definitely.

For those of you who have often wondered how a deconstructionism would be expressed in a literary production, this book really does the job. It's unlike anything that I've read, and yet it seems to have triggered a resonating series of semi-familiar philosophical points from my past readings. Sinclair writes really well and seems to enjoy creating and using the literary vehicle of Derrida/Heidegger's "disappearance of a presense". Instead of reading those stodgy philosophers, take a break and read this book. You'll enjoy how the London real estate and its artistic allies can remake the unmarketable Thames river area. It figures...

reviewer ross pretty much said all that needs to be said about this book. the style is the biggest problem, followed by the stories. a work shouldn't bore you; but there is a fine line between succulent and overstuffed turkey prose. downriver is a burst bird.
remember this, if some obscure work is built up to be the greatest book no one's ever read outside of some critics trying to pull one out of leftfield to impress others (and they probably never read it anyway, too much of a bother)...never forget the work was hopelessly obscure for a reason. silly poets.

Sinclair's book is the only one I have ever read that makes Joyce seem only mildly difficult. I hope Sinclair had a good time writing this; perhaps he'd consider writing "Explaining Downriver".

So, why did I give it 2 stars? The first star is for his ability to write. The second is in case my lack of understanding is due to my being lame rather than this story.

If you are looking for a difficult read that at least makes some kind of sense, try David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest.

the revenesent raddish said rather much all that concerning this book must be said. the style is the largest problem, which is followed by the tales. a work shouldn't transport you; and there are a fine line between the succulent and overstuffed prose of Turkey. downriver a breaking loose bird is. record this- if some obscure work is constructed as above/below, being the great book nobody's never read of, it are of some critics who try to pull one of the left field simply to print another one for each other. (and they had probably never read it in any way, too much a disturbance)...never forget that the work for a reason was desperately incomprehensible. dumme Dichters.

I picked up this book for a number of reasons: primarily, I was intrigued by the concept of a novel comprised of twelve stories which would reveal a gritty, dark side of London's docklands. (I'm not a Londoner, nor have I spent a great deal of time there, but I am drawn to fiction about it for some reason.) I have to admit I was also impressed with the plethora of effusive praise from the British press on the jacket. Having read the first three stories, I have now set it aside, unlikely to return to it. Why? Well, it all starts and ends with Sinclair's style. Had I known beforehand that he is a poet, I probably would have avoided the book. My experience with poets is that their prose style tends to be overly ornate. Some find this wholly delightful, but it generally leaves me deeply unmoved.

I liked the notion of what Sinclair was trying to do in tying the Thames to Conrad's Heart of Darkness, and mixing it all up with a critique of Thatcherite policies and the the capitalist assault on the underclass. He's clearly a writer with a political viewpoint who absorbs his cultural surroundings and infuse them back into his writing. Unfortunately, the connections aren't always visible, and worse, the stories aren't particularly interesting. There are flashes here and there of something, and clearly Sinclair has masses of knowledge and skill, but it's hard to find any cohesion to it all. The reviewer at The New York Times put it rather well in saying, "The book is a tremendous pillar of words, not all of them making direct sense and not trying to." It's writing one can appreciate, but not really enjoy, and since I have stacks of other unread books waiting for me, I'll put this one aside-perhaps forever.