Englishman Jonathan Coe's The Rotters' Club is quite simply the most hilarious, laugh-out-loud novel I've read in years.
Not only is this politically-charged coming of age novel a gut-busting, funny-when-you-least-expect-it literary tour-de-force, it's an assured (although ultimately flawed) work displaying a rare élan and maturity seldom found in the works of young contemporary American writers.
Both an elegy to and an excoriation of the sordid "brown" Britain of the 1970s, which starts around the failure of the Edward Heath's Tory government and the attendant nationwide strikes, power blackouts, and general misery experienced by the population, the book moves through the resurgence of the Labour Party and the death of Socialism as marked by Margaret Thatcher's election victory in 1979.
Yes, this is a social history, and despite some critics who've said the book is too politically aware for its own good, it is first and foremost a tale of longing, be it the yearnings of a married, middle-aged man for his young lover, or protagonist Ben Trotter's (called Bent Rotter by his peers) unrequited desire for girlschool drama diva Cicely.
But the political cornerstone of the book definitely contributes to what many readers see as its major failing. Designed as the first volume of a dyad, this volume explores what Coe has called the last decade of real [British] politics, and a planned sequel will follow the principal characters as adults in the late 1990s through the current maze of Blairite socialism. As such, the novel's various threads don't all come together in a unified dénouement, and this open-ended, albeit life-like, conclusion will frustrate some readers.
And yes, the rumors are true: Coe, who's not afraid of experimentation, has indeed written a 15,000 word *sentence* which runs an exhausting 37 pages, and was inspired by Czech writer Bohumil Hrabal, who once wrote a novel which barely contained a full stop.
This is an uneven novel which, due to the specificity of its locale, time period, and cultural references, may confound many American readers (I am an expatriate Englishman of Coe's generation, but being a Londoner, his depiction of 1973 Brum is as familiar yet as foreign as Tony Soprano's New Jersey). But what a novel it is! And what a terrific read (I devoured it in two mammoth sittings in a day).
One way or another, discerning readers will discover a trip to The Rotters' Club rewarding.