Waiting for Sunrise

I’ve read most of William Boyd’s books and, with a couple of exceptions, enjoyed all of them. The plots are fluid and compelling, the characters memorable and the settings so vivid they speak of the fruits of prodigious research. At his best – Ordinary Thunderstorms, Restless and Stars and Bars (which I read in a day!) – there’s almost no one like him for telling a story that simply won’t let you go.

And then Literature steps in.

That’s Literature with a capital L, books in which idea and theme take precedence over plot and momentum, in which all the ambiguities and uncertainties and plain downright confusion of everyday life all come to the fore to produce a story that Asks Questions but provides No Answers.

If this is your thing, my hat’s off to you. Seriously. Anyone anywhere reading a book – any book - is a hero of mine and I wouldn’t try to persuade you otherwise for a second. But, like the late great Dorothy Parker, I suffer from congenital Lowness of Brow and I like an ending. A conclusion. I like to see things brought together and tied up in a bow. It doesn’t have to be a happy bow. It can be a sad one, a scary one, a bittersweet one. But it has to be a bow.

And William Boyd either can’t, or won’t, make one. Everything I’ve ever read by him ends on a note of uncertainty or just plain old head-scratching confusion. I’ve yet to read one of his books that ends with a satisfying click. A book where I think Yes, of course rather than putting it down and wondering Now, what was all that about?’

But here’s the thing: none of the above will stop me looking out for the next William Boyd.

He's too good a good storyteller.