I find it puzzling that some novels which I find just so-so get read so widely, whilst receiving generally high ratings and even critical acclaim. On the other hand, Jim Powell's "Trading Futures" which I thoroughly enjoyed, currently sits at 3.27* here on Goodreads and NONE of my GR friends has even read it.
What does it take for a novel to be a hit? Does it have to have likeable characters? An unending series of twists? Does it have to talk about child abuse, rape or racial discrimination? Does it have to be uplifting or conversely, so heart-wrenching that it not only tugs at one's heartstrings but totally tears them apart? If that's the case, then unfortunately, this novel has none of that. What it is, though, is a darkly humorous and thought-provoking read. I loved the writing in this book, written in the way that only British writers, it seems to me, can write.
The story is about a successful futures trader in the City who suddenly finds himself out of work. At 60, he is tired of his life and feels he has not accomplished much, even though he is financially well-off, being a former star trader and all. He feels alienated from his wife, Judy, his grownup children and his friends. By chance, he bumps into his 'could-be ex', the one he let slip forty-one years ago, and seriously contemplates leaving everything behind to 'ride off into the sunset' with her. Throughout the book, the reader is left wondering whether the protagonist is having a late mid-life crisis or simply going mad.
The following extracts succinctly demonstrate his deeply-felt crisis:
"When I was small, my mother showed me how to grow a carrot from a carrot. She filled a jam jar with water, cut the top off a carrot, ran a cocktail stick horizontally through the stub and suspended it over a jar, just touching the water. In time, roots sprouted, and when they were long enough and strong enough, the plant was transplanted to the garden and new carrots grew......."
The scene from the window was a distillation of life present, of life cumulative to date. I was in the house that several decades of meaningless endeavour had procured, looking down on the wife that several months of conventional courtship had procured, on the friends that the procured wife had deemed suitable for such a house and such a marriage, on the children that several episodes of drunken sex had procured, and on the partners that said children's market value had procured. None of it seemed to have a great deal to do with me. And nothing whatsoever to do with how I had imagined my life forty years earlier.
It was this that made me think of the carrots. Because what Judy had done, it seemed to me, was to cut me off in my prime, suspend me in water for a while, then transplant me to other soil, her soil, to produce a different carrot. I felt a pang of nostalgia for the original carrot that had been sacrificed to this endeavour. Thinking of that metaphor now, it seems to have lost the epic quality of a Biblical vision that it had when it occurred to me, but still to represent a truth. All I would change is to extend the accusation levelled at Judy, and include myself on the charge sheet for letting it happen. I would also indict Life, which has less capacity to wiggle out of that charge, or any other. Life is the ideal defendant when one is looking for a conviction."