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Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information, Inc.
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
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"Thinks" is both an academic novel and a comedy of manners - containing elements of all of the above. Within a plot both complicated and much too simple the fictitious University of Gloucester provides the setting for the events. A bright, sexually and intellectually restless - and highly verbal - married but chronically adulterous scientist, Ralph Messenger (a dead ringer for Lodge himself, down to each facial feature) meets a younger female writer-in-residence at the school. She is a grieving widow, feeling out of place, away from her home in London, and out of sorts. They close in on one another and pull away - throughout the novel. It's a troubling (and troubled) dance.
The story unfolds by means of the transcripts of Messenger's stream-of-consciousness on-the- fly musings into a tape recorder. (In perfect Lodgeian fashion, Messenger self-consciously edits the transcripts.) Messenger fancies himself a modern, but is confounded by some of modernity's trappings. In alternate chapters, the diary entries of Helen Reed, a novelist of some acclaim and considerable self-awareness, are used to let us in on her thoughts and feelings.
So what's the problem? Messenger is a familiar man: we've watched him in action in other novels of Lodge's. Unfortunately in this one he possesses much less of the the tenderness, the heartrending confusion, and (sometimes comical) sexual frustration and/or energy - and vulnerability - that made so many of Lodge's previous protagonists so irresistibly appealing. In addition, Messenger/Lodge's self-referencing begins to seem precious. Characters from past novels (including Robyn Penrose from "Nice Work") make cameo appearances that seem almost token.
Helen Reed's diary entries are not sufficiently believable- for they are often wooden, much too full of tedious description of the obvious - and usually lacking in any trace of the register of a diary. She doesn't seem to be writing for herself, but for Lodge's presumed audience. This is a real problem in this novel.
The story entertains by means of plotting and timing. As usual from David Lodge there is wit and parody, self-consciousness without narcissism, humor and foolishness, desire and the reasonable wish to connect - occasionally running amok. In addition there is Lodge's basic decency toward all. I had hoped for more, though, from such a capable mind - and wonderful writer.
Lodge does at least seem to be self-aware enough to realise that sex does seem to dominate the book to an obsessive degree so, through mouthpiece Helen, he offers a defence. When she is questioned about the sex in *her* novels she explains that of course the frequency and deviancy is exaggerated, but more standard monogamous relationships just aren't interesting enough for the reader. This lame defence really isn't worthy of a writer who:
a) has the skills to write about a range of issues, characters and experience without needing to fall back on titillation - as if it's the only possible subject that can sustain interest (he might as well endorse Clancy as writing the only readable fiction - readers can't cope unless there's a bomb about to go off somewhere and some macho posturing and biffo every few pages);
b) has literally read thousands of good novels where titillation isn't used at all;
c) has read myriad others that don't shy away for a moment from dealing powerfully with issues of fidelity and sexuality, without crossing the line into prurience (Lodge, in contrast, rushes over the line and can only manage to drift back again now and then).
The irony for me (and I suspect many others) is that what is inadequately explained as a concession to entertain readers actually makes the novel more tedious. I don't read Lodge for seedy revelations, and I suppose if that was what I was after I could find better elsewhere anyway. He can write with passion, humour, insight and wit - but you have to endure a lot of other stuff to get there in this book.
So, a bit of a blast for one of my favourite writers - I'm more aggrieved I suppose because I hope for more - definitely more than just playing with styles almost as a student exercise and thinking lashings of sex can cover paucity of substance.
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