Still by Adam Thorpe, Secker & Warburg, $272 NOVELISTS writing in a stream-of-consciousness style have to be very good or their prose simply becomes incomprehensible to the average reader.
James Joyce carried it off in Ulysses, as did William Faulkner in The Sound and the Fury. But few writers since then have matched their genius.
After finishing Adam Thorpe's 580-page tome, I had to admit that his idiosyncratic style got in the way of whatever plot existed. That is, if indeed one ever did exist.
That Still is primarily about the ramblings of an ageing film director Ricky, I was able to work out. But more than that I cannot say.
Throughout the book, he is visited by memories of dead relatives, friends and ex-wives. He often sees scenes from his life-like takes from one of the films he has made.
There are allusions to various directors and their films which become so tedious that they take the form of in-jokes.
Thorpe appears to be trying to show a character who is living on the edge.