GR friend Maciek recommended this book to me, and I highly recommend that you check out his most awesome review that does a brilliant job of capturing this book's strengths. As for me, I knew very little about it save from what I could vaguely remember from the movie that's over ten years old now.

It's hard for me to classify this novel as anything other than "an experience". Parts of it are fun and breezy, others dark and depressing. Still others surreal and uncomfortable. It has adventure. It has epic creep. It has mind-bending elements that keep you off-kilter. The trick is that no matter what is happening or not happening on any given page, I was totally engrossed the entire time. Every time I came back to the book after a break BAM! I was right back on the beach, real life immediately falling away.

The buildup is slow and meticulous, yet never feels unnecessary. Garland concentrates on the minutiae of beach life to draw us in and make us more than just a voyeur, but a participant. It is a potent intimacy that allows us to see beach politics for what it really is. The descent as inevitable. The ending perhaps not all that surprising.

I love stories that delve into the mechanics and realities of group psychology. Who emerges as leader? As sycophant? As outsider? As threat? Remove any group far enough away from the rigorous checks and balances of "civilized society" and it's astonishing how quickly our moral compass can become "askew" at best, outright busted and broken at worst. Given enough time under the right stressors, humans can justify just about any aberrant behavior as necessary and essential. It what makes us so dangerous in war. The ease with which Richard is able to smother the long suffering Swede is chilling. He does it not out of an abiding empathy to end someone's pain, but to clear an obstacle to his escape plan. Jed won't leave if the Swede still breathes. Richard doesn't want to leave without Jed (which has more to do with Richard's ongoing obsession with Vietnam war movies and "leave no man behind" sentiments rather than real friendship). Ergo, Swede must die now. It makes me really wonder what Richard would have done if he had caught up to Karl before the surviving Swede was able to escape with the boat.  

Life on the beach did not repulse me, but I do not long for that kind of existence and cannot relate to that desire to cut oneself off from society, family, friends, history. Much of the novel reads like a dream, because once you enter into this way of life, your day to day melds, blends and becomes very dreamlike. Time is fluid and driven by the sun rather than timepieces or calendars. The characters - while fleshed out - are not knowable because they are not even knowable to one another (or even themselves). They are first names. They are nationalities. They are how many fish did you catch today. They are the last game of soccer, the last game of Tetris on Game Boy, the last joint twisted up and smoked. I would find that very lonely and off-putting. But I can also see how it can infect you, get into your bloodstream, and that once you found yourself "in it", you wouldn't want to leave. It would feel normal, and safe, and right and something to fiercely protect at all costs. Losing perspective is a frightening notion. But it happens, and when it happens it's too late. You don't know you've lost perspective, because you've lost perspective. See how that works?

There is an emotional element missing for me here because of this. I long to connect, and feel connected to characters and that just doesn't happen. That's the nature of the story and the ruthless and methodical way in which Garland writes it. I can respect that. Plus, Garland chooses Richard as the sole narrator. We just don't know how reliable he is, and we can only see the characters through his eyes, a very limited viewpoint indeed. The other aspect I'm left to ponder is the lack of sexuality. There are hints of people who have paired off, and the unrequited attraction Richard feels toward Francoise, but that's it. On a secluded beach of young, vibrant people at the peak of health and curiosity, why is this sensual component missing? Did Garland just not want to deal with it, or is it a deliberate omission? That part of coming to the beach and giving up so much of yourself means sacrificing that carnal element as well. As if you've been neutered, or given a chemical castration. Perhaps? I don't know. But I did find it odd and it left me scratching my head.

My backpacking, hostel-sleeping days are behind me, and I don't miss them one bit. I wasn't an adventurous traveler even then. Much more cautious and boring than I would ever repeat now. The exotic seeking travelers, desirous of something completely alien, remain completely alien to me. I don't get that compulsion. But I wish them the very best on their epic adventures. Steer clear of the isolated lagoons and beach heads though. Perfection is an illusion, and a siren song.

I picked this one up because a few of my Goodreads friends loved it.
Unfortunately, it didn't do a whole lot for me. What it boils down to
is that I'm not all that keen on Garland's writing here.
For some reason, he failed to engage me in the narrative. It's hard to put my finger on it as to why that is.

For example, there was one point where he was describing

Zeph and Sammy getting beaten by the guards, and I felt very detached to the action.

But it was more than that. I also didn't feel particularly close to any of the characters. I don't know, there was just kind of a vague feel to the whole thing, including the visual I have of the lagoon and the cliffs. When I think I have a good idea of how it's all laid out, I read something else that makes me adjust that.

Just a vague detachment is what I felt throughout the entire story, really, as if I was as stoned as Richard was throughout most of the story. I guess Garland's writing just doesn't jibe with me.
I'm in the vast minority here though, so don't take my word for it. Try it for yourself.
At least my curiosity about the novel is satisfied, so I can move on.

По-слабия вариант на "Повелителят на мухите". Доста увлекателна и бързо се чете. Тъпото е, че има happy end като в американски филм.

Find all of my reviews at: http://52bookminimum.blogspot.com/

All I knew about The Beach before beginning is that it was a movie I never watched starring little Leo that was released about 72 years ago and that it seems to be on many “if you want to call yourself a bibliophile, you better read this” type of lists. Now that I’ve checked it off my reader’s bucket list I’m a bit at a loss for what to say. This is a story that had A LOT of things that I typically enjoy.

Potential utopia that eventually turns . . . . .

n  n

Check.

A narrator who continually has you asking . . . . .

n  n

Check.

Idiots abroad who stumble across a giant pot farm . . . .

n  n

So why the mediocre rating? Well, it also had some things that I don’t typically enjoy such as a lot of underlying political/social messages the author was trying to get across . . . .

n  n

And that unreliable narrator mentioned above? What was his name again? Richard? Yeah . . . . .

n  n

More like Douche LaRouche.

Not to mention his fall into insanity or wicked trips or whatever the eff was supposed to be going on had me like . . . .

n  n

And I know it was supposed to be because he was obsessed with Vietnam via movies and whatnot rather than actually being there, but it was still stupid.

In a strange turn of events, I actually liked reading about the place more than about the people this time around. Which goes to show I might be the most unreliable narrator of them all since I just totally flamed a book for being too descriptive about the setting.

I first read this book about 10 years ago and I've read it at least 10 times since then. As a simple adventure story, it doesn't lose its punch, even upon rereading. Richard, a young English traveller, is given a map in Bangkok by a man named Daffy Duck, who promptly commits suicide. The map leads Richard to a secret beach, where a commune of travellers live in apparent paradise. Unfortunately, this tiny microcosm of existence, while idyllic, is also prone to disasters – from the banal, like a bout of food poisoning, to the catastrophic, like drug farmers bearing arms.

However, the true delights of this novel come from its numerous layers. It's a profoundly intelligent book, which can be read in many different ways, emphasising many different aspects. There's barely a wasted scene, and each one opens up more possibilities for literary analysis. That it is also an effortless read is a testament to Alex Garland's abilities as a writer.

With allegorical finesse, Garland addresses globalism, communism, war, matriarchy and masculinity, what it means to be a Brit who grew up on a diet of American movies, magic realism, madness and much more. Yet the novel never feels weighty – you can choose to ignore any or all of these allegories and allusions if you like. On this particular reading, I began thinking about the idea that the beach could be a drug-induced hallucination, since Richard mistakes Daffy for a heroin addict initially, only later learning that it's the beach he's addicted to. Richard is also a fascinating unreliable narrator; his lack of reliability doubling due to the fact that Garland never demands that you like him very much as a person.

That I do, in fact, like him shows the nuance of Garland's writing. Despite the fact that it's a first novel, Garland shows a grasp of plotting and continuity of a much more mature author. Everything ties together neatly, and even minor characters possess warmth and depth. While Garland clearly draws on knowledge accrued while he was travelling himself, there's no show-off quality about it: he merely drops in hints of exoticism that not only enhance the novel's scenery but also forward the plot.

The Beach is truly a rare pleasure: a fun read that's also profoundly literary.

Not to sound like someone who doesn't like the sun, or appreciate jaw dropping scenery, but I'd rather spend my time in Oslo in the middle of winter than sweat myself to death in the sticky heat of Thailand. I'm not one of those people who so wanted to be Richard after reading the novel or watching the movie. My idea of paradise isn't anywhere near that beach. I don't even like beaches. Not that I want to find myself in that part of the world again, but I'd be more enthusiastic about exploring a cave system and fighting off bats that I would be sitting or lying on sand. Anything to stop me having to rub sun lotion in every five minutes. The reason I thought I'd read this is because over lockdown, with so much time on my hands, I've been having something of a 90s revival. Mostly music. I went through some of my fave albums from the 90s, some of which I hadn't heard in more than a decade, and compiled a huge playlist that had me thinking of such great times for me back then. I thought, why not read some British novels from the 90s too. Ones I never got to read back then. The likes of Trainspotting & High Fidelity were two. Now The Beach. I wasn't really a fan of Richard in the movie and here I disliked him even more. The best parts of the novel for me were when the island commune of international drifters came into it, their nutcase of a leader, and the rivalries and chaos that occurred thereafter. As first novels go I've read worse, and Garland does capture the late-90s zeitgeist really well, but I won't be dreaming about that beach tonight, or any other night for that matter. Françoise, or all that weed, maybe, but not that beach.

Actual rating 4.5/5 stars.

Every year a new horde of backpackers descend upon East Asia in an attempt to escape the banality of their everyday lives. Richard is one of them. He finds the peace of mind and the perspective he hoped to garner with his travels obstructed by the inauthenticity he instead feels there. This stems from the thronged streets full of, it seem to him, like exactly the sort of individuals he hoped to escape from. He too, he then realises, is just one more face inside this horde of Western invaders.

These realisations, followed by a traumatic experience, lead him to follow a treasure map for an unexplored Eden. But is the journey worth the possible eventuality of a paradise at the end of it? And can paradise even exist at all, in such a world as the one we reside in?

The movie adaptation starring Leonardo di Caprio has been one of my favourites for years, with frequent rewatches, and yet I kept meaning and failing to read the original it was based upon. I'm so glad I have finally rectified that, as it proved to be an immersive and atmospheric drug trip of a read, which I sped through in one coffee-fuelled sitting.

Сюжетът е на ниво “асансьорен питч” с неразработени герои. Слаб 2.

The Beach was the 1996 debut novel by Alex Garland, a British writer who's gone on to pen the screenplays for an impressive bunch of UK-produced science fiction films. Garland authored 28 Days Later (2003) and Sunshine (2007), adapted Kazuo Ishiguro's novel Never Let Me Go (2010), as well as the comic book Dredd (2012), the version that was actually good. His name first materialized on screen in 2000 with The Beach and despite the dismal reception of that film -- the script for which Garland did not write -- I was very eager to read his source material.

The novel begins with a British backpacker named Richard arriving alone in Bangkok. Richard -- who we later learn is mending a broken heart with as much exotic travel and dope as he can fit in -- narrates the story with the self-awareness of a twenty-something who's consumed every Vietnam War movie ever made, beginning with Apocalypse Now. He checks into one of the many guest houses on the Ko Sanh Road which cater to young French, German, Swedish or American backpackers looking to escape whatever future awaits them back home.

Adjusting his circadian rhythms to Thailand, Richard finds the thin walls of the guesthouse afford him no peace from the French teenagers having sex next door and worse, the guest across the hall, a Scot who repeats the word "bitch" so many times that Richard realizes he's saying "beach". The Scot peers over the wall to bedevil Richard with lunatic ramblings that make even less sense through his jet lag. The next day, Richard discovers an envelope has been left on his door. Inside is a map to a beach. Entering the Scot's room, Richard finds the man has slashed open his wrists and bled to death.

After submitting to police questions about the dead Scot, who registered under the name Mister Daffy Duck, Richard introduces himself to one half of the French couple, a handsome teenager named Étienne. Having kept it a secret from the police, unsure of what sort of trouble it could lead to, Richard shows the map to Étienne, who recognizes the beach as part of the Marine Park declared off-limits to tourists. He theorizes that perhaps an intrepid few have braved the route and set up their own private resort there, a paradise untapped by commercial tourism. Étienne wants to try for the beach and when he shares the map with his lovely girlfriend Françoise, she's equally game.

Richard, Étienne and Françoise set off from Bangkok by night train to Surat Thani, where they catch a bus to Donsak and a ferry to the island of Koh Samui. Étienne secures a fishing charter to transport them into the Marine Park while Richard attempts to keep his desire for Françoise in check. Their plan is to be dropped off at Koh Angthong, where it's legal to camp for two nights, and make the swim to the next island, the site of Mister Duck's mysterious beach. The night before, Richard meets two Americans, Zeph and Sammy, Ivy League stoners who regale them with a legend they've heard:

Think about a lagoon, hidden from the sea and passing boats by a high curving wall of rock. Then imagine white sands and coral gardens never damaged by dynamite fishing or trawling nets. Freshwater falls scatter the island, surrounded by jungle--not the forests of inland Thailand, but jungle. Canopies three levels deep, plants untouched for a thousand years, strangely colored birds and monkeys in the trees. On the white sands, fishing in the coral gardens, a select community of travelers pass the months. They leave if they want to, they return, the beach never changes.

Before shoving off into the unknown, Richard makes a fatal decision to copy Mister Duck's map and leave it for Zeph and Sammy, insurance in case Richard and his companions disappear. The travelers encounter several obstacles on the road to paradise. There's a swim through open sea which forces them to abandon their backpacks. Once on the island, their hike inland brings them to the largest marijuana field they've ever seen, where they realize their presence is definitely not welcome. They then find a waterfall between them and the beach, a final test that Richard takes and passes.

The beach is everything that Richard, Étienne and Françoise hoped it might be. Fifty or more travelers their ages have spent years building a self-sufficient community (almost) immune to the outside world. They've constructed a longhouse and huts. They've redirected a running stream for sanitary purposes. Work details (Fishing, Gardening, Cooking, Carpentry) are assigned. Marijuana, as much as Jed can steal from the Thai farmers they share the island with, is imbibed liberally. Their leader is Sal (alias SAL-vester), who founded the beach with her boyfriend "Bugs" and one other, the late Mister Daffy Duck.

Garland uses the work details to not only build an alternative society, but to expose a rift between Richard and one of the other characters. I love reading novels about people at work and part of that always comes back to how co-workers get along, or in some cases, don't get along. The story stays on the move, a neat trick considering how content most of the characters would be to sit in one spot, get stoned and discuss video games. Garland keeps stirring the pot, introducing potential friends and enemies, materializing threats and alluding to secrets, the meat and potatoes for a good page turner.

The Beach exists in a temperate climate that I loved, right between literary fiction and genre fiction, between what could have been remarkable tedium or sexed up intrigue. There is a prologue that promises an obnoxious, pop culture infused trip into the author's favorite movies or books, but once the story gets going, Garland tempers much of that (a directive from his editor, maybe).

As a narrator, Richard does settle on the bland side. I was never convinced he was British, that he'd come from anywhere or was in any way unique to anyone else in the book. Garland maintains that his travelers have come to the beach to escape who they were and where they came from. That would explain the absence of character histories, but not character passions. The female characters in particular -- Francoise and Sal -- are devoid of life. They seem like either a 5th grader's perception of women, or the imaginings of male author writing his first novel. Flat.

The Beach is a novel of imperfections, but imperfections I was able to cast off, submitting myself to the journey the author wanted to take me on. This is a deeply layered, imaginative and thrilling book that in some way seems keyed in to the moment it was written. In the mid-1990s, the Internet was beginning to connect the planet and some of us were ready to get off already. I wouldn't call this a Generation X manifesto, but can't argue with those who do. Tackling big ideas make the novel feel bigger than its parts.

Among those who heard the piper's call of The Beach was filmmaker Danny Boyle, hot off Shallow Grave and Trainspotting. Boyle's go-to screenwriter John Hodge adapted a screenplay and Ewan McGregor was promised the lead role. This changed when Leonardo DiCaprio was looking for his follow-up to Titanic and expressed interest in working with Boyle. Twentieth Century Fox ponied up a $50 million production budget and in return, concessions were given to make Garland's vision palatable to a mass audience. It didn't work out well, though Tilda Swinton's performance as Sal and the photography by Darius Khondji are worth the watch.

The Beach was unexpectedly fantastic. It was intelligent, perceptive, unsettling, and filled with tension and intrigue. The writing hits a perfect tone: highly readable; colloqual while avoiding cliche. There are themes of western privilege, the fall of man, and a loose allegory of Vietnam. Sure, there are some predictable parts, and elements that are awkward or undeveloped, but on the whole I was surprised how well constructed and enjoyable it was.

If I wasn’t reading this for a bookclub I would have stopped reading at the 1/4 mark I think. I see why others may enjoy this, but I think I was kept hoping the book would turn out to be something that it wasn’t, which is mostly on me. In my opinion the book essentially boils down to a Lord of the Flies-esque story where instead of kids it’s a bunch of 20-30 year old backpackers. Not for me, but if that piques your interest give it a go

I've put off writing anything about this hoping that I'd be able to drag my weary disinterest through to the end of the novel...unfortunately that never occurred. Maybe it's because of having done the itinerant traveller thing, or maybe it was because the book felt too contrived, or maybe....I expected something else or something more. Whatever. This just didn't do it for me.

If you haven't backpacked through Asia, I guess this book could be an interesting read...and if you had, it might be chock-a-block full of reminisces for you and be worth a trip down memory lane. I think the been-there-done-that syndrome just had me shaking my head at implied-but-insubstantive pseudo insights and the gratuitous self-righteousness of the narrator. All in all, not quite a disappointment but nothing to really write home about. As a tourist, traveller, exile or expat.