Customer Reviews

How the Dead Live

5 star:		(1)
4 star:		(8)
3 star:		(5)
2 star:		(4)
1 star:		(1)

 

 

Having only read some of Self's short stories in the past, this novel weighing in at 400+ pages had the style, wit and great word play I expected from Self but was in need of an editor. The rambling narrative would crank up and then lose its focus, leaving us an an audience to flounder for 15/20 pages at a time. I appreciated the development given to our main character Lily as we go with her through her illness, ultimate death and boredom with death itself. Few authors can turn a phrase or link words together as interestingingly as Self and for that I am appreciative of the book. His stories are filled with such great ideas and settings but in the end a little less would have gone a long way in my enjoyment of this novel.

There comes a point about midway through Will Self's new novel when one realises that his prose isn't actually going anywhere--but stick with it. This is one, long, vile rant from the dying and then dead protagonist, Lily Bloom, who is undeniably a product of her times (coming of age in the '50's, hedonist in the '60's, etc.) and her experience (upper middle class Jewish/American living abroad, several marriages, etc.). It's a pretty repugnant, though darkly, darkly humorous, depiction. She's dying of cancer. Then she's dead. But every page just crackles w/ Self's boundless (and almost blinding) verbal energy and dexterity; the author is never self-censoring though his wordplay does get a bit cheeky. Self also doesn't do himself any favours having his anti-heroine summarising her life through an endless list of historical events that doesn't shed any light on either subject. But overall, it's a provocative and imaginative reflection of the anti-thesis of the title: it's about how we live (an alternative title: It's a Not So Wonderful Life). The novel sprints to the finish line in it's final quarter w/ a fascinating and well-written account that can only be described as Carlos Castenada Goes To The Outback; the reader suddenly and unexpectedly starts to realise the riches of this work, primarily, a bizarre meditation on the nature of parenting and the responsibilities inherent in being a mother and a child. HTDL is merciless and compellingly unsentimental. Well worth reading-a must for Self enthusiasts, a great place to start for newbies.

If you enjoy Self's surreal mindscapes and jackhammer wit, you will appreciate this addition to his literary canon. All of the Self trademarks are here: the awesome imagination, the caustic commentary and the subtle and ingenious wordplay. And, for me at least, there were several added bonuses that make this easily my favorite Will book: a fully drawn character (narrator and protagonist Lily Bloom) with whom to identify and empathize; and a certain level of authorial compassion for the character that wasn't evident in previous works like "My Idea of Fun" or "Great Apes." The result is that, as a reader, I found myself drawn to the character rather than simultaneously fascinated with and repelled by her...which is a more typical response to previous Self characters. The "plot," such as it is, is described ad nauseum here, so another summary isn't necessary. Let me just say that as a reader, I was captivated from start to finish, and find myself recalling certain bits of narrative and imagery even as I've moved on with my life and read other books. I'm actually looking forward to attaining a little bit of objective distance from this book and reading it again, maybe in a year or so, with the hope of discovering new insights and nuances I didn't catch in my first reading.

This book was listed in some brainiac's list of 1001 books to read before you die. It was one of the entries listed under the 2000s and I liked the set up of the story, what little I skimmed, before I picked up the book.

Never having read Self before, I wasn't quite sure what to expect, but I was willing to give it the old college try. I loved the intro. That was about it. I'm sure there's a place for work like this in the world, but it isn't in my head.

I read the first 60 pages trying to figure out what exactly was going on and if I needed a cultural reference book to understand it. But I was able to figure it all out. The protagonist, Lily, didn't have a good life, nor a good death and she holds it against everyone she's ever met. They tolerate her, she silently (and sometimes not so silently) hates them. Nevertheless she wants another go around.

I read the next 40 or so pages, got to know the characters better, got to know Lily better and then realized I didn't like any of them. I struggled with whether I should be a literary snob and slog through to the end because One Should Finish Books, or should I give it back to the place I got it from? I gave it back.

I could have spent a week or so finishing the book, but I just didn't want to. Life is too short to bathe oneself in that much vitriol.

That comment about Kerouac's 'On the Road' being not writing but typing applies to this long novel as well. A sort of modern day Ulysses (hell, the heroine is even called Bloom) narrated by Lily Bloom, cancer raddled old lady who finds that Hindu spiritualist metaphysics have kicked in after her death and she finds herself in a grubby basement flat in Dulston (a suburb of North London where the dead live).

The novel develops the conceit first outlaid by Self in his short story 'North London Book of the Dead' (in the collection 'The Quantity Theory of Insanity'). Whereas that story is a master of literary originality and economy, this novel, over the 400 page long hall is a bloated rant on just about every topic under the sun pertaining to 1990s London culture and society.

Lily is a half Jewish, American woman of high middle class culture whose observational eye is like a camera - there is nothing she doesn't miss. And despise. She rants movingly against her cancerous condition, the yellowy sickly nausea of her incipient mortality. Her mind and family are sick too - her daughter Natasha, a sort of Kate Moss figure, a junkie with translucent skin and blue black hair who just has to rub up against a man to get laid. In her mortality, and beyond, Lily has opinions on London traffic, aboriginal bars, contemporary fashion, interior design of basement flats, politics in the UK and beyond. Just about every cultural incident of significance in late 1990s Britain. Will Self has always liberally slathered his pages with cultural references, but the result here is like a very, very rich oil painting. Too rich to pick out the individual tones and colours. The voice is the same, high intelligent diatribe throughout the novel.

To my mind, novels of the formless, ranting style, all voice no structure don't really suit British novelists too well. There are some masterful examples of the kind in America - Portnoy's Complaint comes to mind. Even Martin Amis's 'voice' novel, Money, also a fantastic book, had to be set mainly in New York to achieve it's effect. American culture is rich and beserk enough to sustain such a book. 1990s London, much as Self would wish it to be, just wasn't. The best British novels of the period (to be fair to Self, there aren't many) had to work hard to dredge up some interesting narrative, as contemporary life was pretty much flatlining, just new bars and restaurants opening, trouser legs up in the spring, down in the autumn, a new instillation causing controversy here, a minor political scandal there. Self unleashes all his satirical canons at once in this novel - the ambition is huge, but the effect shows that much of his powder was damp.

About 3/4 of the way through this novel, one gets the definite impression that Mr. Self is detailing *something* here, how much of it I am or should be understanding is unclear. The first half rather reads like any dismal account of the horrors of death; Lily succumbs to cancer, presenting her uncaring daughters and her entertaining, if ceaseless, bitterness. Have the dictionary ready, English and Americans alike, unless you're in that lucky 'Supra-vocabulary' demographic- Mr. Self means that you come to his text on his terms. I think I agree that the novel has something to do with the death of modernism. The mother/children relations surely seem to point in this direction, as do the constant references recent events, commodities, etc.. And of course there's a little mysticism thrown in for good measure. I found myself lost in the semoitic sea the second half; the "plot" is muddled, but I think to criticize it on those terms is to grossly miscalculate what the novel sets out to achieve. Your mind works feverishly to connect strands and characters and relationships and finally, once accomplished, the teetering house of cards comes crashing down to be reconnected in new and interesting ways by new elements of the narrative. Not nearly as obvious as "Great Apes", this novel is more akin to Self's recent short story collections in its ambiguity. I think Self is prodigiously talented- not as funny as "Great Apes", but surely novelly entertaining.

Blurb (or foreword, I can't exactly remember) of this book, presents it as a satire...In a certain way, it is right. But, in some other way it lacks few imortant imformation.
When one think of a satire, one think at instant of political attacks towards rulling caste, towards media, and towards every aspect of life that you can think about. Here you will find only an old, overweight women, whose thought resemble our own in a scarry manner... All wordly struggle of good and evil does not make a sense once you are dead, all that is left s longin...longing for daughters, longing for sex, longing for food, longing for everything that makes life what life actually is... and in a ceratin way that is all satirical that this book has. Of course you'll find sarcastic remarks, of course you'll find critique of society, but that does not make this book outstanding... What does is feeling of timeliness you suddenly feel upon completing final pages. Suddenly you start to wonder - 'where have all the good times gone'

I've never read anything by Will Self, so I had no preconceptions going in. I thought the premise sounded interesting and some of the reviews I encountered on this site made the book appear promising.

Briefly, the writing is brilliant. The book is filled with insightful thoughts. The descriptions of the dead and how they live are intense, and quite gruesome. The concept is inventive, to say the least.

Let's see, what's wrong with the book? Oh, that's right. No plot! This book is really a great piece of descriptive imagination. It's powerful and fascinating. I just don't really understand what the point of fiction is, however, unless it also includes some semblance of a plot.

I wish I had read ALL the reviews more carefully before reading How The Dead Live. It gave me everything that was promised, but a lot less as well.

This is my first time reading Will Self's work and while the novel didn't have me running to check out everything else Self has written, it did leave me curious enough to explore his other works.
The story centers around Lily Bloom who dies from cancer and passes into the afterlife where one must get an apartment, attend 12 step programs and what not in order to learn how to live again if you will.
I loved the idea of Bloom being stalked/attached to one of her children who died (Rude Boy), and the Fats (all the weight she had lost/gained in life.)
However, my main problem with the novel was the fact that the characters come across as people who I couldn't sympathize with even though they were interesting. I understand Bloom's cynicism and Self's writing possess' a particular wit. The bluntness, I liked, and the character that I found most interesting was Lily's drug-addicted daughter Natalie. It came to the point where I really didn't care what happened to the characters, but I had to finish the book just to see. Maybe Self did this intentionally, but as mentioned before, this is my first time reading Self and maybe I should just get used to it.
It's a good read for the idea of such a world after death. Lily is reminded not to dwell too much into her daughter's lives after her death, and I don't want to do the same with what turned me off with this book.
Will I read Self again? Yes. But would I recommend this for a first time Self reader? No.

I wrote a first, relatively negative review of this book and realized only afterwards that I had been shocked by the lack of sentimentalism, rather than by a lack of feelings in this book about death (my excuse is that as a cancer patient myself I had a hard time reading about somebody dying of cancer described with so little compassion). But, I have to admit that Will Self writes beautifully and that -- in an English way -- he does explore the depth of the human heart. I read in it a message about how in the end we do choose our life.