In Hazzard

This is a plea - a plea for somebody out there to tell me I am not alone. No, don't get me wrong; I'm aware that others exist. But some time ago, I read somewhere, though I forget where, that Shirley Hazzard is among the great contemporary writers in the English language. Thus advised, I had my attention drawn by WotN to a copy of Hazzard's The Great Fire on our shelves; she had bought it a while back but hadn't yet read it. So I thought I would give it a go. I was encouraged in this by the several eulogies on the cover: 'sublimely written', 'brilliant and dazzling', 'exquisitely crafted', and much, much more.

First thing is, I didn't find the book to be sublimely written. I am no stickler for the conventional rules of construction, but if you ignore enough of them simultaneously and repeatedly the consequence can be that you end up with writing that draws attention to itself. Hazzard, in this book at least, likes to leave out verbs where you might expect them, and personal pronouns likewise, the definite article, and the indefinite article; and the result, or so it struck me, is a clipped and constipated prose. She's also fond of disembodied and passive forms of expression, so that you will often encounter this sort of thing (p. 132):

There was Sunday lunch, you swam in the sea, tennis was played...

Hazzard makes no allowance, either, for the fact that normal people don't speak in the way she writes. Therefore the conversations of her characters sound just like... they were written by Shirley Hazzard - which means that the book is peopled with these people whose diction is obstructed by a mouthful of marbles.

But all of that, as intensely annoying as I found it, is not the main thing. The main thing is that the book is about feeling, love in particular, and its redemptive effect in a world where lives have been wasted by war. And with that - love, feeling - it either comes across as authentic or it doesn't. To me it didn't. There was a preciousness and falsity about it.

If there's anyone out there who can tell me I'm not alone, I'd be glad to hear from you. (For a contrasting response to this book see here.)

[A follow-up post.]