Rating: 
Summary: Limpid, fluid and porous as water; soars like a bird.
Review: Written at the end of the Second World War, sandwiched between 'Once upon a day' and 'they lived happily ever after', a death and a marriage, 'Loving' is a fairy tale of the rarest enchantment. While war and social disruption echo from the 'real' world, 'Loving' offers us a sprawling castle from which we never leave, crowded with brilliant peacocks, doves making love on a huge dovecote replica of Pisa's Leaning Tower, and the most elaborately absurd decor in fiction. Within this rarefied, hermetic milieu, broadly familiar from the novels of Elizabeth Bowen and Evelyn Waugh, unravels a tale of a declining aristocracy (the cuckolded man of the house is at war) and cast of bickering, spying, scheming, anxious, unsettled servants, with the focus, unusually, on the latter, especially Raunce the new butler, and Edith, the beautiful, lively maid, two of the richest characters in fiction, not because they're particularly extraordinary, but because Green, in fleet, tightly packed comic-romantic-ironic-prismatic prose, remains alert and faithful to their every mood, whim, desire and fear, creating a genuine, joyful, life-like unexpectedness, and, in the combination of unreal surroundings and emotional realism, rapture after rapture of epiphany, such as the distant sight of two girls waltzing to a worn phonograph, endlessly reflected in the glass of a chandelier. It is one of my favourite books.'Living' is an astonishing achievement by any standards, never mind those of a 24-year-old, and one that suggests that Green's peers are not his schoolfriends Waugh or Anthony Powell, but prose-poets like Virginia Woolf or Samuel Beckett who try to capture the quicksilver complexity of human behaviour. Like 'Loving', 'Living' is a story of the working class, here labourers in an iron foundary in Birmingham, and their wives, daughters and children, with their 'superiors' again playing a subordinate, even ridiculous role. The novel's style is at first daunting, spliced into cross-cutting vignettes, and written in a language that approximates a proletarian idiom. This could have been embarrassingly patronising, a la Galsworthy or Arnold Bennett, but actually facilitates an elastic language full of pure, pregnant poetry. The sharp cross-cutting highlights the novel's many divisions - boss-worker, man-woman, young-old, community-individual etc. - but also connects them in unexpected ways. The title is typically multi-layered - meaning the work people have to do; the way it defines their lives; the struggles of people to better their lives, or simply to live well in an atmosphere of mechanical routine; the idea of class or work as a living in the religious sense, as a vocation you can't avoid. Rigid livelihoods and iron works, a world where the public and private are virtually indistinct, paradoxically produce metaphors emphasising flight, water and fluidity. The focus of these two novels is reversed in 'Party Going', with its cast of brittle Bright Young Things going on holiday to the Riviera. In a startling narrative conceit predating by two decades Bunuel's similar film 'The Exterminating Angel', the entire novel takes place during four hours in a London railway station, as the passengers are stranded by a heavy fog. Wrenched out of a glittering social context, the party-goers' superficial personalities are exposed, their petty selfishness barely masking fears (identity, sexual, social, gender, age, the future etc.) and resentments. As their tempers fray in the railway hotel, the suburban crowd below sing and laugh and grow increasingly irked outside, a terrible mass embodying various hysterical anxieties for the socialites when they can be bothered to notice them. As this structural image suggests, 'Party Going' can be read as a 'State of the nation' allegory, written between 1931 and 1938, and oppressively articulating the general deterioration of a decade Auden called 'low, dishonest' - it is irresistable to see it portending the coming war and social upheaval. The novel begins with a character finding a dead bird, and besides the fog-dark plot inertia that stills the novel, 'Party Going' is suffused with thoughts and images of sickness and death, its minimum narrative unfolding in interminable, sterile tableaux. If this makes it sound like a downer party, I must add that it is Green's funniest novel, with situations and dialogue as laugh-out-loud funny as Waugh, but with the added, mercurial Green poetry (water and birds again) and descriptive geometry, lending dignity and depth to non-entities who don't seem to deserve it. Three novels - some of the most remarkable prose of the 20th century.
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