So much of this book was frustrating and disappointing. The three stars it’s managed to receive from me are entirely due to the diarist herself, who was fascinating, and the extracts of her writing which we are allowed to read (and of which there are not enough). Unfortunately, the substance of this review, which will be somewhat lengthy, has to be devoted to Alexander Masters’ far too heavy hand in the biographical process: his execution in bringing her story to light was, to be perfectly honest, just plain dreadful.
Rather than let the diaries themselves determine what the book should be, it’s clear he had a vision for something he very much intended to be HIS book before he even started reading them, a vision which he then stubbornly adhered to throughout the project despite the odd dissonance this ultimately creates for the reader. His aim may have been to write a ‘quirky’ biography, but the reality is that the diaries contain more than enough quirk of their own, a quirk which should have simply been allowed to speak for itself and shine in the spotlight. His attempts to add humour fall similarly flat. The diarist has her own sense of humour, which should have been allowed to inform and carry the humour throughout the book as a whole. Adding his own, very different kind of humour just ended up being strange and jarring.
Masters hogs far too much of the spotlight for himself and the process of his ‘investigation’, which (to add insult to injury) he doggedly refuses to undertake in any sort of a coherent way. He practically brags about refusal to read the diaries in any sort of order as a means to prolong the mystery (and then correspondingly WRITES his account in the same higgledy-piggledy manner), but the effect of this was far more frustrating and infuriating than interesting or curiosity-enhancing. Many of his speculations about the diarist before learning the full story seem entirely illogical, fanciful, and unconvincing, and as more of the truth is revealed, we learn that this is indeed exactly what they are. He goes to great lengths to create an entirely unnecessary sense of mystery which ends up feeling tediously contrived; many of the purportedly ‘unsuspected’ facts about the diarist must have been clear to Masters long before he reveals them to us. (Either that or he actually didn’t work things out until he says he did and is just incredibly, subhumanly daft).
I was thus nagged throughout by a disturbing worry that Masters simply wasn’t doing the diarist justice, that I would have derived an altogether different interpretation of the essence of this woman. I just didn’t TRUST him, somehow, about her. I kept thinking as I was reading that there must be at least a dozen other ways to write it that would have been more effective, more satisfying, and quite possibly also paint a more accurate overall picture.
Masters’ approach might have worked if the diarist herself had been a far less interesting and entertaining individual. Instead, she hugely outshines Masters in every way: her quirk, her humour, the quality of her writing, the appeal of her personal story. It is a very sad thing that Masters had his heart set so fiercely on writing a book about finding a bunch of diaries in a skip, because the diaries he found merited a book devoted much more wholly to THEM, something more along the lines of a simple compilation and edit with a MUCH abbreviated description of their discovery/his reading of them and an extended account of meeting her and getting to know her at the end. I did manage to finish the book, with a sizable admiration for and desire to know more about Laura the diarist, and a desire to strangle Mr Masters.