The festive season has certainly been engulfing me. Between sales, reprints (a festive clink of the glasses to that, I say) end of year accounts (stop clinking now) and all the rest of that December madness, I have become slightly behind on the 12 days of Christmas. But what better way to catch up on my LitVit than on a sunny Auckland day?
Today, the recommendation has to be for a book I have been raving about since I sat down and read it last weekend. I don’t know why it took me so long to read this book – maybe I knew I had to save it until a perfect summer’s day with a glass of Pinot Gris. And that is exactly how I devoured one of my favourite books of ’09: Emily Perkins’ Novel about My Wife.
I have long been a fan of Perkins’ writing, and retain her well-thumbed previous titles on the cool section of my bookshelf. Novel about My Wife was no disappointment, even after the enduring hype from the Montana Book Awards. Perkins seems to write with a flowing translucence which both captivates and dissolves the reader into her work. In this book this is reinforced by an absence of chapter breaks, and rightly so. It is absolutely un-put-downable. There is no space for chapter breaks.
The story is narrated by Tom Stone, a late 30’s struggling scriptwriter of London. Through a combination of authenticity, subtle humour and endearing character imperfections the story weaves through Tom’s memories of his late wife, Ann. Tom seeks to recollect and repiece the complexity of his wife, and with him the reader drifts through posthumous reminiscences – sometimes humorous, often sad but always real. A dark undercurrent of emotional distress and disorder emerges as the story progresses and ultimately results in Ann’s death.
The narrative is not as dismal as it may sound here: death, depression, disorder and paranoia. In fact Novel about My Wife is refreshing. How Perkins gets inside the head of a man with such seeming accuracy is beyond me, but it certainly is deserved of every ounce of attention the book receives. Read it. Better yet, buy it and keep it on your shelf.
And while you sift through the pages of Tom Stone’s memories, pour yourself a glass of Pinot Gris. Recently I was given a bottle of Saint Clair’s Godfrey Creek 2008 Pinot Gris, and it sat on the wine rack for almost as long as Perkin’s novel sat in my pile of “must read’s”. Partially because I was waiting for the right occasion, and partially because Pinot Gris is still rather unknown to me.
But like Perkins, Pinot Gris is a rising New Zealand star. It has the weight of a Chardonnay but is absent of the oak. To me it is still a little mysterious (a bit like Ann is to the readers of Novel about My Wife) and you can’t guzzle it as fast as a light Sauvignon Blanc. Sip it a little slower, see if you can suss it out as you turn the pages of this great book, and you’ll still be lucid by the end.
