I underestimated this book for its first half or so. I won't spoil it for those who want to read it, but it comes together beautiful in the last 30 pages. Like A Clockwork Orange (which it was written in the same creative outburst as), it's written in an irregular simplified kind of English. The central character, Howard, comes off as very mysterious, which makes his intentions and the novel's plot hard to predict. This is mostly due to the fact that it's narrated by his wife, Janet, who's pretty naive, but also lovable in a simple kind of way. The book is in many ways another version of A Clockwork Orange. It deals with (some of) the same themes and is also structured a traditional way (reminiscent of say Orwell, Lawerence, or Conrad) unlike some of Burgess' more postmodern books from 1965 onwards. This makes it pretty accessible (and probably not a bad book to pick for reading Burgess for the first time). There's also a very real obsession with American culture throughout out, albeit from the perspective of British people, which I found interesting. Like most of Burgess' short novels from his repatriate period, it's well worth the read.

An excellent thriller in the vein of Patricia Highsmith...not quite what I expected, but definitely a good read!

Funny and poignant - and very British. A fun read that keeps you guessing, and an ending that makes it all fit so well.

8.7

Vivid, striking, and consistently engaging, One Hand Clapping fits well within Burgess' impressive bibliography. It's an easy book to describe, and though quite dark in terms of theme, is kept extremely lightweight. Death is treated like a casual inconvenience, and 55000 post-war GBP treated like a worthless sum to be used and abused. Really fun read.

Elimden bırakamadım. Bu kadar hızlı okuyup bitirdiğim çok az kitap vardır. Aslında hiçbir şey anlatmıyormuş gibi gözüküp, modern topluma dair bir sürü tespit ve eleştiri barındıran enteresan bir roman. Yani okurken şunu düşünüyor insan, sıradan bir İngiliz çiftin gündelik hayatı neden bu kadar sürükleyici ki? Sanırım sebebi, alt metinleri ve yazarın bu çifti sunuş şekli.
Ayrıca Roza Hakmen'in çevirisi tek kelimeyle muhteşem. Ustalığını her cümlede hissettiriyor.

At only 216 pages it still came in as a very long read. A story contrived in order to preach about the fallacies of modern life. As dull as dishwasher water,very boring and predictable.
Extremely disappointed as I do love Burgess. Check out "a clockwork orange" or "the doctor is sick" as better examples of Burgess' undoubted talent.

The main appeal for most of One Hand Clapping is the interesting narrative. While "slow moving" for 3 quarters of the book, the main character Janet has an interesting voice and is written as though she's talking to you as a friend. She's quite likable and therefore makes the seinfeld-esque story about nothing compelling. It's essentially a story of a man (Janet's husband Howard) who sets out on a mission to figure out whether or not life is worth living in a very Albert Camus sort of fashion. It's a critique of society, pop culture, capitalism and comfortability.

If you have the hardcover 1970's version of this book (with the plain white cover and black lettering) DO NOT READ THE INSIDE FOLD SUMMARY! It gives away part of the ending, and it would have been a much more enthralling read had I not known that was coming.

This is a story written in 1960 by the writer of "The Clockwork Orange" and narrated by a 24 year old woman, a pretty working class young women who is married to a man with a photographic memory. The idea appealed to me as my memory is quite photographic too. This edition has an introduction which I wish I hadn't read as it gave the game away. Some of this was an interesting read but the style of the writing by the women was like a memoir and I found her voice a bit irritating. Burgess was commenting on the world of consumerism, advertising and Americanisation of Britain and some of this did come across and after all this time, it was interesting to read about everyday life in the 60s but overall the storytelling didn't appeal.

Értékvesztett, kiüresedett, unalmas, semmilyen mind a főszereplő, mind az élet, amit bemutat Burgess. 'Egy hülye pics@ locsogásai' is lehetne a cím, a könyv első fele alapján, ami miatt félbe akartam hagyni az egészet. Viszketett is a tenyerem, szerettem volna, ha az enyém csattan a nő arcán. Túlzottan valóságos volt a nő hangja (ráadásul férfi író szólaltatta meg, ami önmagában is mindig izgalmas). Felbosszantott a tudatlanságával, naivitásával, a házasságtörésével, és a "tipikus újgazdag" hülyeségeivel. Eszembe jutott róla egy ismerősöm, aki úgy ment el (elvileg) Szicíliába, hogy azt sem tudta, hova ment és az hol van, itthon irdatlan baromságokat hordott össze, hogy hol volt, fogggalma nem volt semmiről. (Azóta sem tudjuk, hol járt valójában - de ő sem.)
Ez a nő dettó, nem tudja értékelni, amije van, hülyeségeket csinál, felszínes, tájékozatlan... Elegem lett, és a házfoglalók és egyéb léhűtők végképp kiborítottak, szóval nem lehet mondani, hogy hidegen hagyott a könyv, nagyon is sok érzelmet ébresztett bennem, de ezek sajnos a könyv első felében nem szolgálták a szórakozásomat és kikapcsolódásomat.
A könyv témáját illetően nem volt előzetes információm, de csak kíváncsi lettem a végére, és jól tettem, hogy nem hagytam félbe. Volt egy megérzésem, hogy csak lesz ebben valami családon belüli erőszak a cím miatt...
Sajnos azt kell mondjam, túl érzékletesen és hitelesen írta le Burgess az 'üresfejű liba' szócikkhez tartozó történetet, és engem ez nagyobb részben felbosszantott, és minimális részben szórakoztatott. Önismereti szempontból érdekes volt, mennyire ki tudok akadni a butaságon (tényleg a plafonra másztam!), de az érdektelenségen és sekélyességen még inkább.

One Hand Clapping is one of those novels I can re-read any number of times. It’s not one of my all-time favorites, it’s not one of those books which changed my life or shaped my world-view, and I wouldn’t say that it’s a flawless, inimitable, fascinating, carefully plotted and executed masterpiece – but the character of the novel’s narrator and her mindless, casually ignorant, school-girlish story-telling style continues to grip me whenever I re-read the book.

The story is set in the 1950s, in Bradcaster, a boring small town in England. Janet and Howard Shirley live their simple, comfortable life here. Their most striking feature is that they have no striking, remarkable features at all, their age and environment fully determine their way of life: they live in an average council flat, they go to their workplace everyday, they eat cooked food for lunch because that’s the way everyone does it, and cuddle up on the sofa at night to watch TV together – as it is, they enjoy their lives in their own way.

There’s one thing though which makes the Shirleys a little bit less than average – Howard’s unique and very powerful visual memory which enables him to learn the contents of whole encyclopedias just by glancing at their pages. Making use of his wonderful talent Howard enters a quiz show on TV and gambles a bit, and wins a whole lot of money. He decides to make the best of his wealth and buys everything money can buy – and then he draws the necessary conclusions from his experiences.

Although the protagonist is Howard, the story is told by his wife, Janet, and she is (or seems to be) a fearfully ignorant narrator. Janet is a shallow, empty-headed, pretty-in-an-average-way woman who immediately buys the newest brand of chocolate cookies because she saw them on TV; a woman who tends to wonder whether she should put another log on the fire or brew a tea even during the most critical moments of her life; a woman whose motherly instincts only (but then immediately) arise when she sees a heart-warming commercial featuring a mother and her infant child. Janet is a woman shaped by television, commercials, women’s magazines and the general expectations of society – a Cosmo girl in the 50s.

And it’s not only that beauty is in the eye of the beholder – the moral lesson is also in there: Janet is unable to grasp the meaning of Howard’s unusual thoughts, motivations and deeds, therefore the only conclusion she can come to is that poor Howard must have been driven crazy by his unique brain – and that’s that for her. Still, even though Janet is pretty dumb (to say the least), her obtuse reactions to Howard’s plans are strangely appropriate and acceptable. Of course any reader will easily understand against what Howard wants to revolt, still, his actions seem somewhat irresponsible, meaningless, futile and of no effect, so it’s no wonder that a person with Janet’s limited powers of comprehension will find them such an immensely big mystery.

By the way, it seems to me that Janet is, after all, not as dumb as she looks. Despite the fact that her vocabulary, immature personality, desires, thoughts, emotions and reactions all show the mind-numbing effects of TV, she still retains the power to reflect upon herself. She continuously comments on her own ignorance and simplicity, she admits that due to her prettiness she doesn’t have to be smart because men will love her anyway, and she even reflects upon the fact that there’s such a huge amount of junk on TV. It seems that Janet is well aware of her strengths and her limitations, and at the end of the novel she even learns how to take the initiative and shape her life to fit her needs.

And this is the most frightening and satiric aspect of this novel – no matter how easy it is to justify Howard’s dissatisfaction and to understand his awkward attempt to change his life, a self-assured, assertive, narrow-minded and in a way dangerous person like Janet always manages to make sure that attempts like Howard’s end in failure and that the world remains the kind of cozy, lukewarm place where the Janets can feel at home.

'Talvise laupäeva kella viieses ajas on mingit sõnuseletamatut nukrust.'

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Aktuaalset kirjandusdidaktikast ja/või selle puudmisest:

'Olin ostnud hiigelsuure pudeli teravalõhnalist Schaparellit, aga minu nina tundis selles vähem aroomi või lõhna kui lõhnaõlis, mida ma tavaliselt kasutasin. See oli mõõduka hinnaga lõhnaõli "Julliet", mida ma hääldasin inglisepäraselt "Juliet". Aga mina olin nüüd nagu tõeline Julia, kes suure saladuskatte all läheb oma Romeoga kohtuma. Kahju, et meid koolis seda lugema ega mängima ei pandud, aga meile räägiti alati, et meile Shakespeare ei meeldiks, või õigemini, et me ei saaks sellest tuhkagi aru ja et Shakespeare on ajast ja arust. '