The Trick of It

by Michael Frayn

He knows everything about her before they meet: the make of pen she writes with, her exact height, the various honorary degrees she holds. He knows more about her nine novels and 27 short stories than she does herself. Naturally--he has devoted his life to studying and teaching them, and he reveres them. Also, he is four times as clever as she is.

The Trick of It is a comic and painful voyage of exploration into the creative process and the feelings it arouses in others. The humble academic disciple finds himself admitted to his subject's life, and off to this oldest friend go a series of dispatches--by turns awed and patronising, reverential and jealous, disingenuous and appallingly frank.

Genres: Fiction, Humor, Literary Fiction, Novella, British Literature, Literature

171 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1989

About the author

Michael Frayn is an English playwright and novelist. He is best known as the author of the farce Noises Off and the dramas Copenhagen and Democracy. His novels, such as Towards the End of the Morning, Headlong and Spies, have also been critical and commercial successes, making him one of the handful of writers in the English language to succeed in both drama and prose fiction. His works often raise philosophical questions in a humorous context. Frayn's wife is Claire Tomalin, the biographer and literary journalist.

Reviews

[notgettingenough · Rating 4 out of 5]

Michael Frayn has this trick of making me see something about myself I didn't understand. In this case I was quite taken aback to see written in black and white the explanation of why I can't write fiction.

Oh, thanks, Michael Frayn, I say somewhat doubtfully.

Frayn does make a habit of inducing me to break my principles never to read a book twice. Compared with A Landing on the Sun I'm not sure I could explain why it is so with this book. Maybe an example? This book is a monologue by a man obsessed with his wife.

Have I ever told you what she's like? I haven't, have I! What am I thinking of?....

All right - perhaps I should simply give you a complete physical description. I'll begin with her eyes, because that's the first thing you notice about her. Her eyes are like Indian groceries. That's to say, they're open. Very open. Open from early in the morning until late at night. You have to watch them for a very long time to catch them blinking. I sometimes sit on the opposite side of the kitchen table and watch them for thirty or forty minutes without seeing it happen. A blink in her eyes is as rare as a sea-bream in the Sahara. Is it humanly possible to go that long with a blink? Perhaps she does blink - this astonishing thought is coming to me for the first time now as I write - and I don't see it because I'm blinking too. Her blink is unconsciously triggered by mine, or mine by hers, so that we blink in perfect unison.

They're serious eyes, that's the next thing you notice about them, and they shine in the soft light reflected upwards from the tabletop beneath the shaded table-lamp. The pupils stand wide in the half-darkness, and in each of them is a tiny man. This tiny man fits into the pupil most perfectly, like a jewel into a jewel-case. His appearance is striking. He reminds me of a small golden cloud left in a clear evening sky, or a smile left in the bathroom mirror. No description of her would be complete without a complete description of him, so I'll start with his eyes, since they always seem to be looking at me. They never blink, either. They're not so serious as hers, but they also shine in the soft upward light, and the pupils are wide. But what makes them immediately recognisable is that in each pupil is a little woman. Now, no description of the little man could ever by exhaustive unless it included a description of the little woman in his pupils...

I'm sorry about this, It's probably because it's the fourteenth of the month. Which, as psychiatrists now recognise, is three days after the eleventh.

And thus, in the space of two brief sentences Michael Frayn provides a complete judgment on the entire field of psychiatry.

How could you not love him?

[Fern A · Rating 3 out of 5]

Real vibes of ‘The Diary of a Nobody’ and ‘Three Men in a Boat’ with this one, only a bit more semi modern. This is one of those books that is cleverly written in that the real story is between the lines and in the things not told, seen or understood by the main characters. A funny, entertaining and witty quick read.

[Jana · Rating 4 out of 5]

This was MY postal book pick for our Round #7. (Go us!)

I loved this book! I laughed at many a page. This is an epistolary novel set in academia.

I may have liked it more than everyone else though. But I entertained myself enough for all!

Michael Frayne writes with such amazing variety. Noises Off is also the funniest play I've ever had the fortune of seeing (thrice). And then Copenhagen penned by the same person and oh so different. Serious and intellectual and riveting.

Highly recommend this novel.

Your mileage my vary.

[Philippe · Rating 2 out of 5]

The first half of this male chauvinist pig rant struck me as rather funny. But then it starts to sag a bit. I prefer the luminous and poetic Frayn from A Landing on the Sun, which is truly an unforgettable novel.

[Lisa Roberts · Rating 3 out of 5]

postal book from Jana - some weirdness going on with the main character here

[David Stoker · Rating 3 out of 5]

This was a disappointment.

First, the good: Frayn's writing here is incredibly witty. As the quotes on the cover say, he is funny about very serious things: love, ego, insecurity. As a spoof of literary criticism it could match Tom Woolf. And I like the effect he creates by constructing the novella entirely out of letters from one direction (the protagonist to his friend, a kind of confessional). And the questions of "what if you met your hero? What if you dated them?" are genuinely interesting.

Next, the bad: The mismatch of tone and content. I was attracted to the tone, brisk and farcical. What left me with a sour taste in my mouth was the "tragi-comic" ending. It started comic, and ended up tragic (meant in the proper sense - not just something sad occurring, but the sad ending being an inevitable consequence of the initial setup). I left this book exasperated, saddened.

The problem may be with me - I was expecting a different story. Even so, I suspect others would find the end result oddly unsatisfying as well. It's like watching "Couples Therapy" without the therapist, and where one partner never gets a word in, and you, the reader, playing the role of observer-therapist, but unable to intervene. It's a cruel turn. But maybe I lack the mettle for tragedy with my comedy.

[David]

I saw Noises Off on Broadway in August 1984 and have been a big Frayn fan ever since. This one--detailing a lit prof who eventually marries his favourite writer--strikes close to home in some ways (though I married Michelle before she started publishing :-) -- especially the humour surrounding how we communicate, invent, write, fictionalize, collogue with colleagues, etc.

[Blaine · Rating 3 out of 5]

This was middle ranking Frayn for me. It has its usual very clever writing, and the construction is intricate and fun, "wheels within wheels" as one of my law firm mentors would say, but for me the momentum dragged a bit in the middle and the progression until the end was a little, dare I say, predictable.

But I did enjoy Frayn's very comic exploration of the difference between the creator and the academic, and how the latter, in looking for system, categorisation and structure, misses the trick of it.

And I liked the joke of the form of the novel, which I won't give away here.

Any discussion about what was actually happening on the stairway on Bloody Saturday and what it all means will be in the Buddy Read section after my buddies have read it.

[Septimus Carr · Rating 5 out of 5]

Maybe there were other people who were just as prolific, although I doubt it, especially since Prince did a lot more than just record, and Dickens did a lot more than simply write novels. But I yoked them together in my mind at that moment because they are two of what I shall have to describe, for want of a more exact term, as My People—the people I have thought about a lot, over the years, the artists who have shaped me, inspired me, made me think about my own work…. Anyone who has spent a lifetime consuming culture in all its forms at a possibly unhealthy rate has a similar list.
Nick Hornby, Dickens and Prince: A Particular Kind of Genius

Call it paranoia, but the last sentence of that quotation from Nick Hornby’s extended juxtaposition Dickens and Prince feels like a gauntlet drop aimed at me personally. For one thing, Hornby has clearly intuited that he himself once occupied a prominent spot among My People. For another, my inner narcissist can’t conceive of another reason to write a 159-page Venn diagram whose concentric circles overlap so narrowly that the exercise initially seems pointless. In one circle sits Charles Dickens, master of Industrial Revolution page-turners and character name inventor extraordinaire. (Has any writer been so unfailingly gifted at nomenclature? From Canon Crisparkle to Mister Sweedlepipe, Mrs. Kidgerbury to Master Bates—okay, perhaps not “unfailing.”) In the other circle sits Prince, the master funk-pop innovator who told the global media, “my name is now a symbol I made up,” to which the global media obsequiously replied, “As you wish, Mr. Symbol.” That anachronistic pairing converges precariously on a few superficial similarities and two that really count: their shared membership in Nick’s Hall of Influences and their pathological productivity. Hornby suggests that the raw tonnage of artistic output produced by the Oliver Twist author and the Purple One may be weightier than that of any other pair in cultural history. “Maybe you are reading this and shouting, Wagner! Picasso!” he writes. “If so, you’ll have to write your own book.” Holy shit, he did it again. Did you hear him? Did you hear him? Oh, the monster overbearing. He is unmistakably triple dog daring me to draw an arbitrary pairing from My People that is more rhetorically fertile for a personal essay than his. Alright, Hornby, you’re on.

This is a joint appreciation of Nick Hornby, master of novels about shallow lads who fetishize pop culture, and Michael Frayn, master of novels about narcissistic academics who fetishize high culture. At the heart of the comparison is their shared interest in the vast gap between artistic appreciation and artistic labor.

HIGH FIDELITY AND COPENHAGEN

When I was in my twenties, that gap sometimes felt like an unbreachable chasm. If you asked me then how I wanted my personal bildungsroman to play out, I would emphasize my aspirations to secure artistic labor. But like many theater kids at that age, I was unable to confidently identify my artistic niche. Promising enough as a liberal arts graduate to have the pick of the theatrical internship litter, I turned down the Ostentatiously Expanding Enterprise most likely to hire me and signed on with the Struggling Cultural Institution that let me try my hand in the most departments. Dramaturgy was the real lure of that internship, but at the time there were only a handful of paid dramaturgs in the country.

Michael Frayn’s Copenhagen, the first Tony winner I ever saw live, was a dramaturg’s dream. Nestled at the nexus of history, science, and epistemology, the play ricocheted with intellectual energy. I had encountered Frayn as a master of meticulously plotted farces (Noises Off, Chinamen), but he didn’t become one of My People until I read Copenhagen. Quantum physicists Werner Heisenberg and Niels Bohr look back from the vantage of posterity, racking their brains as to why Heisenberg visited Bohr during the German occupation of Denmark. The ghosts reenact their brief and explosive encounter again and again, but the closer they look the more history is contaminated by bias, dogma, longing. This is an anthropomorphic dramatization of Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle, which asserts that, within the atom, observation alters outcome. Quantum physics fiction isn’t unique to Frayn, before or after. Tom Stoppard’s 1988 spy sendup Hapgood uses wave-particle duality to illustrate the human capacity for multiplicity. Benjamín Labatut’s 2021 novel When We Cease to Understand the World plumbs subatomic uncertainty not so much for metaphor as for ghastly post-nuclear atmospherics. Still, Frayn’s treatment blew me away then and took root in the corner of my brain that scrutinizes motivation and intention. It was the kind of play that made me want to be a dramaturg. No, director. No, playwright.

The rudderless drift of my artistic career did not deter my proficiency as a consumer of art. In that respect, I resembled the now-iconic OG shallow lad Rob Fleming in Nick Hornby’s 1995 breakout bestseller High Fidelity, which I read around the same time. Rob and I both enjoyed ranking things. He through endless Top Five lists (best subtitled films, most memorable split-ups, etc.) and I through obsessively researched Oscar Party competitions. He opened his own record shop. I was hired to write album reviews. We both had an overdeveloped capacity for informed artistic appreciation. His artistic ego was wounded when he started dating a singer/songwriter. Mine was wounded with nearly every social encounter. I wasn’t as crass as Rob in my dating life, but I was at least as incompetent at it. I was or I was not ready for commitment, and I did or did not love, and I could or could not envision myself pursuing any other course of action than the one on my plate any given day. My twenties are ongoing in my dreams. I wake up and rack my contaminated memory to pinpoint my past self's motivations and intentions, but my observations yield only endlessly shifting Heisenbergian uncertainty.

THE HORNBY YEARS AND HEADLONG

By my mid-thirties and forties, I’d settled on a career outside the arts with research duties that led to reading fatigue. That caused me to sacrifice serious reading in exchange for binge watching and never-ending screen time. During that decade, I occasionally opened a book, but I always lazily defaulted to authors I already knew. It was an exceedingly exclusive club of authors, and Hornby ranked at the top. At that point in my life, his familiar Shallow Lad Deepens narrative was intellectual comfort food. Book after book told the same story of superficial people redeemed through human connection. The snarky journalist in How to Be Good is so enamored with the Woke Girl that he eventually becomes good himself. An awkward tween in About a Boy teaches a coasting one-hit wonder how to care again. A mismatched suicidal foursome in Long Way Down restores their desire to live via shared community. A skateboarder in Slam time travels his way to becoming a responsible father. The shallow lads are usually accomplished appreciators of pop culture, but art is supplanted in importance once they achieve the Well Lived Life. In all of that Hornby, I think only Sophie Straw, The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel-esque sixties comedienne in Funny Girl, succeeds as an artistic creator. But by the time I heard that audiobook on a solo road trip to Fort Wayne, Shallow Lad Deepens felt less surprising than the exponentially replicating mile markers on I-69. Hornby’s work is clever and engaging, and each book succeeds on its own terms. But it was time to read somebody else.

My literary exile finally ended during an annual visit to a favorite bookstore, a tradition that somehow survived the reading recession. A copy of Hornby’s State of the Union: A Marriage in Ten Parts was languishing on my nightstand, but I’d seen that couple resort to therapy in the television version, and it had failed to light a spark. Instead, I picked up a Frayn novel that took a troubled marriage narrative in an entirely different direction. The narrator of Headlong is a narcissistic don as bored with teaching the philosophy of Nominalism (the belief that there are no universals) as I was with my repetitive reading life. He is existentially rejuvenated by his delusion (or is it?) that his country neighbor unknowingly possesses a long-missing masterpiece by Dutch painter Pieter Bruegel the Elder, who quietly resisted the religious tyranny of Spain’s brutal 16th-century despot King Philip II. I began reading the book with enthusiasm. And put it down in intellectual exhaustion 20 minutes later. In better times before and after, I would have devoured Frayn’s frisky 344 pages like an airy apéritif. Instead, my atrophied attention span alternated between pathetically brief spurts of momentum and weeks of doomscrolling relapse. Yet curiosity about Professor Martin Clay’s snowballing descent into art-fueled madness kept inspiring a few more reps, a few more reps, a few more reps. Ten months later, *Headlong* was still on my nightstand. But t*The last 20 percent was so propulsive that I stayed up all night until I reached the conclusion.

THE TRICK OF IT AND JULIET, NAKED

Three weeks ago, I wrote a review of Toni Morrison’s God Help the Child entitled "In Defense of Latter Morrison.” One critic in particular triggered my defense mechanism. Ron Charles, for 20 years the esteemed literary voice of the Washington Post, employed his prodigious linguistic powers to dispatch the book as “flat” and “clunky.” I didn’t recognize Morrison’s novel in his arch encapsulation, so on my Substack I characterized Charles as “breathtakingly disrespectful” to a “national treasure.” The next day, I spotted a singularly witty post on my Substack feed. It was a rejection of T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land penned by Amazon’s Jeff Bezos. Snorting gleefully as I seared a salmon filet, I noticed the writer’s name. Ron Charles. Attempting to bookmark the post with my unspatchulaed hand, I accidentally hit “Subscribe.” I am now an (unironically) enthusiastic member of Charles’s 34,000 + subscriber base. Turns out I’d levied a snarky grammar joke at an incisive wordsmith who is a national treasure in his own right. Worse, I did it on his new platform 100 days after he was laid off from his position as one of the nation’s few remaining newspaper book critics. That is an institution that has long been important to me as an appreciator of art.

Frayn’s 1989 novella The Trick of It lampoons literary appraisers so impressed with their own pedantically intoned insights that they become blind to merit. Its narrator, Richard Dunnett, is a verbally precious English lit professor who meets, beds, and marries the novelist he specializes in. The constant conjugal interaction destroys the relationship between critic and writer. No longer the resident expert on his wife’s work, Richard becomes insecure, defensive, and controlling.

A refusal even to consider sympathetic and constructive criticism, it seems to me, is a terrible vote of no confidence in oneself…. I have to give her the confidence to go forward. And I have to do it by shaking her confidence in where she is standing now. That’s the paradox which … is inherent in every teacher’s task, every critic’s role.
Michael Frayn, The Trick of It

Richard’s admiration for his wife’s craft devolves into a sulky rejection of fiction itself: “That's what they do, these people,” he says of novelists. “They embroider, they improve on the truth -- they tell lies.” He tries to write his own novel (“any bloody fool can do it”) but eventually must concede that her gifts dwarf his own. For all his rambunctious wordplay, Richard’s erudition masks an underlying banality of artistic thought. He is the prototype of the Fraynian shallow don fetishizing high culture without genuine substance. Frayn’s depiction of Richard punching up at his wife, who is clearly the better writer, feels eerily relevant to my experience punching up at Charles for punching up at Morrison.

Hornby’s 2009 novel Juliet, Naked treads much of the same territory in a pop culture context. The Trick of It is about a professor who meets the author he teaches. Juliet, Naked is about a professor who meets the reclusive rock star he teaches. Unlike Frayn’s, Hornby’s pompous academic doesn’t become romantically entangled with the object of his fanboy obsession. Instead, his live-in girlfriend does. Both works mock the swollen pride obsessive fans and experts often feel in their own artistic interpretations. Both books win laughs by puncturing that pride. My impulse is to crack wise about the redemption that the rock star finds in his relationship with the professor’s ex, but it is a genuinely poignant resolution, and it is always easy to be glib.

Loving art, high or low, is not the same thing as crafting one’s thoughts about art, and analyzing art is not the same thing as creating it. In the last two years alone, I’ve consumed 100 books. Artistic consumption does fuel one’s creative appetite, and now I try to write these essays to ensure I am intellectually engaged with the books. Hell, I write them to make sure I am intellectually engaged with life at all. For a chronic consumer and one-time wannabe creator, that is almost but not quite a Shallow Lad Deepens narrative.

Touché, Hornby.

[N N · Rating 3 out of 5]

Michael Frayn is so eloquent and so funny that he sometimes seems to get by without very much effort. This novel which concerns itself with the mystery of creativity and the relationship of fiction to reality is by turns hilarious, glib, and a bit of a bore. I think the reason must be that the narrative, in the form of a string of letters from one academic to another, is more or less a stream of consciousness (SoC, as the narrator would probably be the first to abbreviate). And the problem with SoC is that it's relatively easy to make it funny and to touch upon any range of subjects in any order at all and in any combinations that one might fancy. One does not need to bother with things like plotting and structure and setting the scene and fleshing out the characters. SoC is too much like a cop out. And once the book is finished, there are no images to stick in memory, and one doesn't really remember a book fondly by a few good jokes. It is an abstract, cerebral construction, with shades of Pale Fire everywhere (no pun intended): in the choice of subject, the unlikely central coupling of writer and academic, the send-up of literary criticism, the Kinbote-like megalomania of the narrator. I wonder if Frayn was conscious of the parallels.

[Robert Wechsler · Rating 4 out of 5]

A tragicomedy about a relationship between a literary academic and the principal author he studies. This isn’t your typical satire of the literary world, but it does touch, mostly humorously, on many of the aspects and elements of that world, especially the emotions, from curiosity to adoration to jealousy to postpartum depression. It’s a first-person, epistolary narrative, all letters from the academic to another academic (a friend of sorts). The story is told alternatingly (and eccentrically) between immediacy and retrospect.

Frayn is typically brilliant in the humor and in the novel’s structure. The novel’s ending is one that could only be appropriate to this novel. I gave the novel a 4 primarily due to the limitations caused by the fact that the narrator is such a doofus.

[spisok_korablei · Rating 4 out of 5]

I would have easily given it 5 stars if he'd kept the ending open. But what a great book about mysteries of creativity and the constant tug of war between barren intellect (casting lurid light over one's limitations) and fecund empathy (being pushed over time and again by any squiggling worm, and still towering over the world through one's ability to transform and crystallize)!

[Sam Smith · Rating 5 out of 5]

Funnily clever. Cleverly funny. Writerly clever. Cleverly written.

[HansBlog · Rating 4 out of 5]

Aus HansBlog.de:

Ein kleiner englischer Uni-Dozent geht eine Beziehung mit der Großschriftstellerin ein, deren Werk er seit 12 Jahren erforscht und lehrt. Darüber berichtet er in aufgeregten Briefen an einen befreundeten Geisteswissenschaftler in Australien. Frayns Roman gibt ausschließlich die Briefe des neu verbandelten Uni-Dozenten wieder.
Dieser Dozent, Extremkauz, schreibt schrullig und mit Esprit. Sicher schreibt so etwas niemand besser als Michael Frayn (*1933; ich habe das Buch auf Englisch gelesen). Da gibt es reizvolle stilistische Varianten, sehr kurze und sehr lange Schreiben. Das macht viel Spaß, aber:
Auf Dauer ermüdet der eigentlich vergnügliche, jedoch perma-hochtourige Briefton des Dozenten. Frayn nimmt zudem das Brief-Genre nicht übermäßig ernst, liefert fast mehr einen Ich-Erzähler-Roman. So fehlen über den Briefen Anreden und Datumsangaben, unter den Briefen Grußformeln. Braucht Frayn eine zweite Person, lässt er seinen Korrespondenten einfach Antworten oder Rückfragen des Gegenübers imaginieren.
Dazu habe ich auch inhaltliche Bedenken: Zwar berichten die Briefe unentwegt von der Großschriftstellerin, doch sie bleibt seltsam blass. Warum sie eine dauerhafte Beziehung eingeht, ist völlig unklar. Wir hören von ihr nur wenige äußerliche Dinge (zwei Söhne, gartelt, kocht und schreibt viel), aber der Roman beschreibt sie nicht als Mensch, zitiert sie ohnehin nicht wörtlich. Manchmal denkt man, Greene habe sich nur ein Vehikel ausgedacht, um über akademisches Leben, Großschriftstellerei und die Ehe als solche vom Leder zu ziehen.
Dennoch: Frayn ist ein begnadeter Unterhalter – zugleich deftig und taktvoll, intelligent und Slapstick-affin, geistreich und verspielt, sprachlich versiert, dabei nie pompös selbstgefällig. So einen hätte man gern auf Deutsch, aber ach.
Assoziationen zu diesem Roman:
- die überdrehten Ich-Erzähler in mehreren Romanen von Joseph Heller
- die überdrehten und überkreuz reisenden Schreiben im Briefroman Der Fieberkopf von Wolfgang Bauer
- momentweise die überdrehte Stimmung in Michael Frayns Theaterstück Der nackte Wahnsinn/engl. Noises off
- Frayns Roman Skios, der so wie Wie macht sie's bloß nur knapp daran scheitert, wirklich unterhaltsamen Humor ohne größere Störungen zu produzieren
- das englische Uni-Milieu in den Romanen von David Lodge

[Susan · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is an epistolary novel, consisting of letters from an academic, Richard, to a colleague of his now working in Melbourne. I have only really discovered Michael Frayn's work in the last couple of years, although he was born in 1933 (thankfully, still very much with us) and is the author of many novels, plays and collections. His earliest novel was published in 1965, the most recent in 2012, and 'The Trick of It' was published in 1989.

Richard is an academic, specialising in the work of an author, referred to as JL. He invited this famous novelist to talk to his students and we follow his rather unreliable narrative of his one-sided correspondence. Richard aims to understand JL, to know more than her work. He sleeps with her and is later outside her house (having travelled to get there in a scene which suggests at the very least obsessive interest and, at the worst, stalking) when she drags him inside. Inside, Richard finds chaos going on, which he delights in assisting with sorting out - creating order, allowing JL to work. He begins to protect her privacy and, long story short, they marry.

This is the story of a man who becomes closer than he could have hoped to the brilliance he has always admired but fails to understand. Having gained his desire to be physically close, he attempts to see himself as an equal, but is thwarted in his desire. 'I wasn't trying to find out what she was doing - I knew what she was doing. I just didn't know how she was doing it.' JL needs to work, to write, to create. Richard is the eternal outsider - the critic, the reviewer, the interpreter. This is a clever blurring of roles and of the distance between those who create and those who feel somewhat cheated that they can only admire across an unbridgeable gulf.

[Pascale · Rating 4 out of 5]

A giggle from start to finish, but high art too. The narrator is a youngish academic in a minor British university whose obsession with a novelist who is older than him by about a decade rules his life. In letters to an Australian friend, he recounts his elation at finally convincing the writer to visit his class, the progress of their relationship and the (predictable) bitter ending of their marriage. What kind of a person the narrator is is revealed just as much by what's not said as by his exaggerated claims of admiration for the subject of his "research" and love for his wife. In fact our narrator is a novelist manqué who hopes that close proximity with an actual author will somehow yield to him "the trick of it". We surmise that his neediness is what melts the novelist's heart, but as a husband he quickly shows his true colors. Madly jealous of anybody who is interested in or has a claim on her, he tries to prevent her from giving interviews or answering her mail. He's even jealous of his own mother, whom he's neglected all his life, and whom his wife treats with respect and compassion. Focussed on her writing, the woman accepts to move from London to a dreary isolated house, and then even to Abu Dabi when the narrator loses his job in Britain and decides on a Gulf state as the perfect place to imprison her. Even if Frayn intended this as a mere caper, in today's context this story also reads like a very sharp denunciation of what has rightly come to be labelled "toxic masculinity", so that like the best comic fiction, this book turns out to be as thought-provoking as it is sidesplittingly funny.

[Kirsten · Rating 3 out of 5]

Ein junger Mann und eine Frau treffen sich. Er ist Professor für Literatur und sie die Autorin, die er seit Jahren verehrt. Die Beiden verlieben sich ineinander und heiraten. Aber das echte Leben ist ganz anders das in ihren Büchern.

Was passiert, wenn dein größter Traum wahr wird? Träumst du glücklich weiter, oder wachst du ernüchtert auf?

Der Leser wird mitten in die Handlung geworfen. Begeistert schwärmt der junge Mann seinem Freund in einem Brief von seiner Angebeteten vor, die er bald sehen wird. Je weiter die Beziehung geht, desto begeisterter werden die Briefe. Dann kommt das Erwachen. Plötzlich stören Kleinigkeiten, die Anrede ist nicht mehr so liebevoll und er fühlt sich klein neben seiner berühmten Frau. Offensichtlich gibt es eine erfüllte Beziehung nur in ihren Romanen.

Es ist interessant zu beobachten, wie sich überschwängliche Begeisterung zuerst in Gleichgültigkeit und später in Genervtsein ändert. Wie weit der Professor etwas unternommen hat, um das zu verhindern, konnte ich nicht erkennen. Für mich klang es so, als ob er nicht damit umgehen konnte, dass seine Angebetete nur ein ganz normaler Mensch war.

Die Geschichte wird einseitig erzählt, weil man weder die Antwort des Freundes kennt, noch die Reaktion der Ehefrau. Aber genau das hat mir gefallen, weil es Raum für eigene Ideen gab. Trotzdem hätte ich gerne gewusst, ob vielleicht doch jemand dem jungen Mann den Kopf ein bisschen gewaschen hat.

[Sally · Rating 2 out of 5]

I love Michael Frayn as a playwright; as a novelist, not so much. Imagine Sinclair Lewis’s The Man Who Knew Coolidge, but with the main character as an academic rather than a businessman. As a short story The Man Who Knew Coolidge was very funny; as a novel it really went on too long. So as for The Trick of It. The novel is told in a series of self-indulgent letters by an academic who specializes in an author. He invites her to talk with his class. By the end of the evening he’s in her bed, and within 50 pages has married her. He fusses a lot because he’s an expert on her writing and wonders what can he use of their relationship, and how might he provide scholarly help to her writing. She’s read none of his criticism and never will; he takes her away to Abu Dabai and that’s the end of the novel and the relationship. Disappointing.

[Alex Smith · Rating 3 out of 5]

I think that Michael Frayn at his best is a stellar comic writer, whether as a novelist or as a playwright ("Noises Off" is the funniest farce I ever hope to see). This book seemed to me to be a misfire, however. The narrator is meant to be unlikeable - which he certainly is - but he is also meant to be a wonderful, self-deluding comic figure, which he wasn't for me. 172 pages of his continuous company really became unbearable. The situation is worsened by the fact that, aside from his wife, there are no other characters of substance in the book, and even she is a very sketchy figure. If you are interested in Frayn, I heartily recommend "Headlong" or "Spies" rather than this disappointing work.

[Bill Lawrence · Rating 3 out of 5]

I've liked the few Frayn novels I've read, but this really disappointed. After an introduction, explaining his moment of inspiration and why he wrote this, to understand ideas of writing about yourself and how you appear. He decides that the epistolary form is needed, so a series of letters from his academic seat to an old friend in Australia. But this is just from his perspective, there are no return letters, no conversation, apart from that he invents within his letters, answering his own questions or manufacturing false conversations with someone close by. The letters then come across as very false and not particularly illuminating. Yes, they are occasionally humorous. They reminded me of letters from Groucho Marx that I had been reading recently, a similar tone and type of humour. It was all very readable and blessedly short. And then I couldn't help thinking, as this was published in 1989, why weren't they using email rather than post. It was well established within Universities by then if not with the general public. Because that is Frayn's conceit, to write an epistolary novel. A conquest of form over content.

[Ruth Hosford · Rating 4 out of 5]

I really rather enjoyed this book. It was definitely quirky and had some wonderful funny moments. It’s about an academic who asks an author who he has researched and lectured about for a few years, to come to the university for a discussion with his pupils, and then he marries her soon after. Most of the story is gleaned from letters he writes to his friend and former colleague who has moved to Australia. There are quite a few underlying themes which are not quite spelt out so they’re left to your imagination. It’s beautifully written, it’s Frayn after all, and although the print was small and the story short, I was engrossed. I did find the ending a little abrupt.

[Alicia · Rating 2 out of 5]

The tone is reminiscent of Julian Barnes (at his worst) and Edward St Aubyn in Lost for Words...a bit pompous and smug in other words. The 'trick' is actually an interesting concept nonetheless: a literary academic becoming a part of what he is researching by marrying his subject. This novella raises a few interesting questions and after about half way he stops being quite so smug and realises he's on shaky ground. Interesting (and short at 130 pages).

[Peter T · Rating 4 out of 5]

Through his long and self indulgent letters, a conceited little prick reveals how he winkled his way into the life of a woman with more creativity and humanity in her little finger than he's got in his whole body.
Frayn has a lovely way with words, even when from the pen of the self congratulatory Mr Mediocre. The way that the lecturer hides his selfishness and hate behind humour is so clever.

What a shame it seems to take her so long before she realises and resists with energy..

[richard · Rating 5 out of 5]

Frayn has a deliciously nasty habit of writing successfully from the perspective of a man who cannot truly recognize his own mediocrity, who persistently gets in his own way - it has led me to read and re-read 'Headlong', and now this, my second time through 'The Trick of It'. In lesser hands that could spell disaster, but Frayn is a consummate writer, and when he finds a form to express the inner dialogue of these men, it's just a joy to watch.

[Alice · Rating 4 out of 5]

A slim but engrossing epistolary novel, taking the form of letters from one academic to another as the writer first meets and then pursues the author whose works form the basis of his study, teaching and writing. Published in 1989, it feels dated (did we really send cables as late into the 20th century as that?) but, being Frayn, it's still funny.

[Jan · Rating 3 out of 5]

A sort of internal monologue (albeit in letter form) conducted by a literary fanboy who somehow manages to bed and marry the object of his obsession!

Its a rather odd melancholy tale but I did quite enjoy it in a strange way.

[Lisa Frankfort · Rating 2 out of 5]

Main character chauvinistic and irredeemably arch and annoying. Best lines near the end of the book, given to the unnamed successful novelist he married. But not worth reading that far for so little payoff.

[Will Blkly · Rating 4 out of 5]

Very well written although it takes a while to get into. The author captures his main character, this immature academic twit, excellently and we have to witness through his letters to a friend his tragic self destruction.

[Gary Lewis · Rating 5 out of 5]

One of the funniest novels I have read. Could relate to key characters so perfectly

[Mark Allinson · Rating 4 out of 5]

A lot of fun. Surely no real university department would run like this?